


In My Life

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Drama, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:34:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock made a vow to protect John and Mary, always.  But with Mary's secret past it will be a difficult task, not to mention a dangerous one. </p><p>"Sherlock felt a chill run through his body that matched the sudden coldness he felt in his heart.  He would not allow himself to be fooled.  Not again.</p><p>He had said at John and Mary’s wedding reception there would only be one vow in his life.  But he was wrong once again and glad to be so, for he would make one more vow.  The only one that now mattered, or ever would."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

John could hear the sounds coming from the street below.  Baker Street was generally quiet, but this warm mid-summer eve people were still out and about… music blared from their cars, middle-aged mums chatted energetically as they walked their dogs or pushed their prams, children’s cries carried through the air as they played ball, reluctantly moving out of the way for the occasional car to pass.

The window was cracked open several inches, allowing the breeze to come in, keeping the air inside fresh.  Fresh enough to almost keep the commingling scents of sweat and sex in abeyance. The curtains billowed lightly, parted just enough to let the evening sunlight stream into the room.   

Stream directly onto Sherlock’s face. 

Lying on the bed, his head propped up by his hand, John’s fingers were going numb from being weighted down so long. 

Sweet Jesus. 

He could never get enough of Sherlock’s face.  Never. 

Even in sleep, Sherlock’s face was more expressive, more beautiful than any he had ever seen.  He still found it difficult to absorb the reality that Sherlock was here with him.  Not ever having considered himself an overly sentimental man, he was surprised as his throat constricted with emotion at the thought that the man lying beside him was now not only his best friend, but his lover, his partner in every sense of the word.  And that he had the profound privilege to be in his presence every day.  Every night.  Was allowed to love him, allowed to inhale the sight of him at his leisure.  Allowed to just _be_ with him, which often was more than enough to make him content.

As he watched Sherlock, sleepy blue eyes opened and smiled at him.  A smile that told John everything he needed to know.  A smile he had never seen prior to all the trials they had been through, a smile that now told John just how precious he himself was.  That the man who had found caring not to be an advantage had taken the risk and opened his heart all the way.  All the way for _him._ Or as Sherlock would say, all the way _because_  of him.

Dismissing from thought his now totally numb fingers on his right hand, he cupped Sherlock’s face with his left, stroking his thumb along the lips that he thought might one day be the death of him.  Truly, they had to have been put on this earth, on this face, specifically to drive him mad. 

Sherlock lifted John’s hand from his face and kissed the palm.  As he looked at John, his eyes held hunger and contentment as he gazed on the face that he could look upon for many lifetimes without ever getting bored.  Contradictory states of mind to be sure, but instead of dividing him, they complemented each other in a way that only served to make Sherlock whole. 

The feel of Sherlock’s warm, moist lips moving on his palm made John shudder.  It was if someone had tapped into a nerve ending that spread all the way through him, electrifying the entirety of his body. 

He leaned down and kissed soft lips, whispering against them, “I love you.” Meeting Sherlock’s eyes, John poured out all his love through his own.  A gentle smile turned up the ends of his mouth. 

John was rewarded with the words he knew he would never tire of hearing, “I love you, too, John.”  Words accompanied by an impish smile that made John wonder just what was going through that mischievous brain. 

He didn’t have to wonder for long.  The detective rolled onto his stomach, and wriggling his hips to get himself situated, found a spot that felt just right.  He was able to still face John, able to still rest his eyes on the face that gave him life.

John’s fingers pressed firmly down the length of Sherlock’s spine.  As he did, he looked at the wounds that had been inflicted on the back that was once, and always would be, beautiful.  He had never asked Sherlock, and Sherlock had not told him, how they came to be there.  If Sherlock didn’t want to talk about them, then so be it.  But he had been unable to keep himself from seeking answers.  Not because he did not respect Sherlock’s privacy, but because he knew that if he was going to continue to be a part of Sherlock’s life in any meaningful way, he needed to know what Sherlock had been through.  He needed to share, in even the most vicarious way, the dark hell Sherlock must gone through during the two years he had been away after jumping from St Barts. 

And so he had sold a small part of his soul and gone to Mycroft for answers.  Had asked his lover’s brother what had happened to Sherlock.  Hearing the story told to him he had _felt_ the blows inflicted by barbed wire lashing at fragile flesh.  Wire that had ravaged the body he now held so dear.  As he had listened to the story he had held his hand to his mouth, holding back the sobs as he was told they had been endured for him.  For _him._

Sherlock had taken his place… so that he would not have to suffer at the hands of a madman. 

As John continued massaging up and down Sherlock’s spine, he knew Sherlock was aware he was looking at the scars, absorbing their meaning one more time.  He could almost hear the words Sherlock’s eyes spoke, ‘I did it for you and I have no regrets.  Anything for you, John.  Anything.’

Christ.

He couldn’t think about the other marks on that perfect body.  Injuries Sherlock had sustained that had nearly cost him his life.  Including the one inflicted by the woman he had once loved, the woman to whom he had been married.  The woman who had carried his child.  Mary.

As he continued to touch Sherlock, a need for him deeper than any physical need, permeated him.  He needed to show this man, in the most primal way possible, how much he loved him.  How necessary he was to his very existence. 

John’s fingers drifted down to the base of Sherlock’s spine, stopping in between two small dimples that smiled above the rounded mounds of flesh that rose up off the bed, beckoning to John.

Sherlock clenched his glutes as he watched John’s face, clenching first one, then the other, then back and forth again.  Watched as John was unable to keep from laughing.

“Show off!”  John reached out and swatted the closest cheek.

Telling John, “Come and get it,” Sherlock continued to flex his well-developed muscles until he got what he wanted. 

John picked himself up off his dead hand, taking a few moments to shake it awake, then repositioned himself, straddling Sherlock’s thighs.  He rested his hands on Sherlock’s ample arse cheeks, massaging them, alternately pressing his thumbs into his coccyx.  Sherlock hummed lightly in approval, his eyes now closed as he relaxed into the attention. 

Kneading, pressing, massaging, John didn’t stay in one spot too long, after all, the point was not for Sherlock to fall asleep. 

Grabbing a generous handful of flesh, he squeezed and kissed it, nipping lightly as Sherlock responded with involuntary muscle contractions that told John he was hitting his mark.  Cupping the bottom of one cheek, he sucked at it, creating a small red mark.  His lips skimmed along the surface, caressing Sherlock’s entire bottom with kisses.  Christ, he could never get enough of this arse.

Scooting up further until he straddled slim hips, he leaned over, nearly lying on Sherlock as he kissed the nape of his neck, the curls at the top of Sherlock’s neck tickling his nose.  He loved the way Sherlock smelled.  There was nothing he could compare it to; no way to describe his scent, other than it was _Sherlock_.  Nipping at Sherlock’s neck, he nudged him to lift his belly a few inches off the bed. Trailing his mouth along Sherlock until their lips met, Sherlock’s parted to gasp when John reached beneath him and took his lover’s cock in his hand. 

Sherlock’s sudden inability to breathe may have had something to do with John’s weight on him, but John didn’t think that was entirely the case seeing as his hand was rhythmically stroking the engorged shaft and their mouths were clamped together so tightly there was little room for air to intrude. 

When Sherlock tried to mumble something against John’s mouth, they finally broke apart, taking deep breaths to regroup.

“Lube, John. Lube.  Now,” Sherlock said, still sucking in air before he got any more lightheaded.

John didn’t have to be asked twice, fumbling in the sheets for the tube that eluded him for what seemed like an eternity.  Finally grabbing ahold of it he unscrewed the top with his teeth and releasing his hold on Sherlock’s cock, he started to squirt some in his hand.

Pausing, he asked, “Bottom?”  He wanted to make sure they were on the same page, but as Sherlock had been playing the ‘bongos’ with his bottom, he really didn’t think he was off target.  The smirk from those well-kissed lips told him he was not.

Taking the tube with him John returned to straddling Sherlock’s legs.  A generous dollop on his middle fingers of his left hand and he sought out Sherlock’s rim, first circling it with his fuck-you finger, then dipping it in slowly, watching Sherlock’s face, getting almost as much pleasure giving as was the taker. His own cock grew hard as he watched Sherlock’s breathing start to get heavier, saw eyes flickering beneath closed lids, felt Sherlock clenching around his finger, then two, as he probed inside.  His own hips started to rock back and forth as he subconsciously primed himself. 

His lips sought and found a sensitive patch of skin on the delicious body below him, the body that carried within it the other half of his being. 

Sounding half drugged, Sherlock murmured with little conviction.  “I can top if you like, I…”

“It’s alright, love, I’m quite happy where I’m at.”  Quite happy.

Sherlock lifted himself to his knees while John picked up the tube, sucking in a small breath as he squirted a generous amount of the cool gel on his dick, warming it with a few strokes as he slathered himself, preparing to bring his man to his third climax tonight.  Guiding himself to the heart of his lover, he entered Sherlock in small increments, letting him relax enough to take John’s cock all the way in. 

They started out slowly, John gliding in and out without haste, seemingly soothing Sherlock into a trance.  Bracing himself on the bed with one hand, he took Sherlock’s shaft in the other and whatever trance his lover had been in quickly disappeared as his arousal overtook him, his hips pushing back to meet John’s increasingly demanding thrusts. 

Curling in on himself enough so he could reach the back of John’s thighs, Sherlock held on, the extra tactile sensation threatening to send John over the edge.  Sherlock was right there with him, every thrust bringing ever deepening moans, incoherent utterances, until he was so deep inside himself, so deep inside of _them_ , all he could think of was John.  “John” he moaned, “John”, _“John”._ Deeper his voice went, more guttural, more urgent. 

Hearing his name spoken on Sherlock’s lips with such earthy reverence caused John to give everything he had, to give the love of his life an orgasm that would make him forget his own name.  Harder, faster, he thrust and stroked, his thighs slapping against Sherlock’s sweaty body until he felt Sherlock seize up, the cock in his hand bursting a cascade of come on the already suspect sheets.  Until his own body released itself into the tightness that held him as if it was a vice, the hips he held onto sure to have imprints on them where he gripped them with unchecked desire. 

Exhausted, John gingerly pulled out, flopping down beside Sherlock, accepting the kiss that then turned into a tired smile.  Accepting the arm that pulled him closer, bringing him into the circle of Sherlock’s warmth. 

As Sherlock lay there wrapping his arms around John, nuzzling his nose into his neck, listening to the rhythmic breathing that said John was asleep, he was left with a sense of complete and utter peace.  A sensation he never thought would be his to experience.

He knew there was nothing more he could ask for, nothing more he could want.  The man he loved in his arms.  The child John had created, the child they both now claimed as theirs and theirs alone, downstairs in the room that used to be his. 

He shuddered as he remembered how this perfect life had almost not come to be…


	2. Point Blank

“Did you bring it with you?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to get up when he heard the knob turn on the door, watching as it swung open.  There had been no knock, there hadn’t needed to be.  He knew who his visitor was.  John. 

John came into the room, a countenance on his face that had rarely changed in months.  Seldom was there a smile anymore; seldom did he make the effort to even glower.  Just a constant look of displeasure at the cards life had dealt him.  His was the face of a man who had been looking forward to what should have been the happiest time of his life, newly wed with a child on the way, who instead found himself caught unaware by a wife he found he didn’t know.  A wife who had betrayed him with the basest of falsehoods; she had lied about who she was, what her past was.  And the unborn child?  A baby girl, he now knew.  A little girl, Christ!  The joy of impending fatherhood dampened by the uncertainty of her parents’ future.

He felt as if he was living in fog.  He found himself unable to leave his marriage, yet unable to fully engage himself in their daily life.  Yes, he still lived with Mary, solely in the sense that they shared the same space.  He slept at their flat, ate the food they prepared, left for work and came ‘home’.  For the sake of the child he went with her to her obstetric appointments.   But it was a mechanical life.  He couldn’t say he really found it living. 

Most of his waking moments he spent either at work or with Sherlock at the flat on Baker St.  Mary didn’t seem to object, or if she did, she didn’t show it.  At home she was attentive, but not overly so, never pressing him to offer more than he was inclined.  Occasionally she tried to talk to him about what was going to happen with them, letting his resulting silence hang between them, heading to the kitchen to get another cuppa when it was apparent he was not going to involve himself in _that_ discussion.  Not now.   Her tactic couldn’t have been better planned; had she pushed him he would have left.  Had she played the affronted spouse the response would have been the same.  As long as he was living in the same flat with her she had hope that he might come around.  John understood that and allowed her to wonder, getting the smallest amount of satisfaction in letting her do so.

He crossed the floor of the sitting room in Sherlock’s flat and sat down.  Sat down in the chair that had always been his _._   It had been removed for a time, had gone missing after he had married, but after Sherlock had been shot, shot by Mary, it had reappeared without explanation and he hadn’t asked. 

He sank into it, the well-worn springs not quite giving the support they had when he first moved into 221b, but he barely noticed, grateful for its familiarity.  Grateful for its constancy in his life.  Grateful for Sherlock’s constancy as well….at least when he wasn’t dead.

“Yeh, I’ve got it,” he said, pulling the thumb drive out of his jacket pocket.  He rolled it around in his fingers, the lettering that had once been bold now almost worn completely off from the many times he had fiddled with it, had contemplated whether or not he should plug it into his laptop to discover the secrets his wife felt might drive John away from her forever. 

A.G.R.A. 

How many times had he looked at it, paralyzed by indecision?  Wondering what the initials stood for (Her _real_ name?  The people she had worked for?  Some kind of code for god knows what?), wondering if he should, if he _wanted_ to, know what it held.  She had said its information would cause him to stop loving her, but that was pretty much a done deal anyway.  Wasn’t it?

With hesitancy on his face, John looked at Sherlock.  He had brought it with him, so he must be ready.  Maybe ‘ready’ wasn’t the right word, perhaps ‘resigned’ would better suit, for he knew he had to know what was on it.  Had to know the complexity of the situation he had found himself in.  Had to know once and for all just who, what, he had married.  And if, after knowing those things, they would help him figure out once and for all if he wanted to stay in the marriage.  Maybe…maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he imagined.

A.G.R.A.

These were the initials that could well turn a lopsided life all the way upside down.  And he didn’t think he would ever be ready, but like bringing a child into the world, could one truly ever be ready?  Or did one just blindly jump all in, letting the change take them where it would?

Sherlock remained silent, for once not feeling the need to interject, leaving John to once again re-decide what to do with the confidences held the small silver case.  Realizing it was his decision to make and his alone.    

Sherlock had not been the one who said it should be read, had not been the one to call and say it was time, that he couldn’t handle not knowing anymore.  It had been John.  Sherlock had tried to talk him out of keeping the drive, telling him ‘she is no different now than the woman you chose to marry, no matter what it holds,’ doing his best to get John to destroy the certainly damaging data. 

No, Sherlock had been the one to try to bury Mary’s secrets, had been the one, even more than Mary herself, to try to convince John that he needed to move on, to look forward.  Look forward to the day he held his baby girl in his arms and let it all go.  Mary’s past was just that….past. 

The resolve of a final decision prompted John to push himself out his seat.  He went over the desk and paused before placing the drive next to Sherlock’s open laptop, his fingers lingering on it for the briefest of moments.  Finally leaving it where it laid, he turned to the detective.

“It’s yours to do with it what you will.  You can tell me, or not, what’s on it; that’s for you to decide.  Just, just do what you think is right.”  John looked at Sherlock, at the man who, without realizing it, he had chosen to trust over the woman he had pledged his life to. 

 

* * *

 

The private compartment of the limousine was kept at an exact 21° C, warm enough that Sherlock needed to remove his coat, laying it on the empty seat beside him.  He leaned his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes.  He was just as happy not to have to talk; Mycroft was reading e-documents, taking occasional notes on the yellow pad laying on the small table top that pulled out of the seat between him and Anthea, and Anthea was absorbed with her Blackberry in between making corrections on the notes Mycroft handed her.   

On their way to Christmas dinner, Sherlock was working, too, but he had no need for paper or internet; the only resources he needed at the moment were those he carried with him at all times, those in his head.  Anyway, he wasn’t working on a case at the moment.  Tasked with deciding what to do with the thumb drive, in essence, to decide John and Mary’s fate as a couple (‘do with it what you will’), he was reviewing his decision, making certain he had made the right one. 

When he had made his _own_ vow at their wedding reception, “Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will _always_ be there, _always,_ for all three of you,” he had meant the words, as he did still.  His one and only vow in his life and he would fight to the death to keep it; he owed John Watson nothing less.  John was his best friend, the man who had come to mean something to him no other person had.  Protecting John meant also protecting those he loved.

* * *

 

“This is what I want you to do, John,” Sherlock said in the hallway, out of the earshot of the others in the house, the Christmas music helping to disguise their hushed words.

Handing John the thumb drive, he told him, “You are going to destroy this.  You are going to take it to Mary, tell you haven’t read it, which you have not, and you are going to throw it into the fire.”

John reached out to accept the device, hesitating while Sherlock slowly released the other end. 

“Did you open it?  Do you know what it says?” John asked, looking at Sherlock’s face for clues to the answer.

Looking John straight in the eye, Sherlock answered, “No.”  His answer was succinct, but not harsh. 

John took the drive and pocketed it, still looking at Sherlock, trying to divine if there was more to the answer given, if there were any unspoken words, any forthcoming explanation.  Seeing none, he nodded. 

“Alright then.”  He felt relieved.  Relieved to have the decision made for him, relieved that the wisest man he knew felt it best to destroy the information, unread.  While he was not going to take relationship advice from Sherlock Holmes, which was what this amounted to, he knew that it also meant Mary was not a threat, not to himself or anyone else.  People could change and it appears she had.  For him.  Since the incident with Magnussen, when she had shot Sherlock, she had stopped going out in the evenings without him, had become the quintessential mother-to-be, building her nest for the baby.  No, no, she had left that other life behind, he was sure of it.  He would choose to focus on the ways she had changed his life for the better and leave the rest behind him.

He smiled at Sherlock in thanks and with a feeling of hope he had not felt in a long, long time, he left the hallway to go find Mary.   

* * *

 

Sherlock had lied to John.

No one who knew him would be surprised; he was known to make up his own rules to achieve whatever end he desired.  And in this case, the end he desired was for the most important person in his life to be happy. 

So yes, Sherlock had read the information on the drive, had gone for two days without sleeping so he could think.  Think about the ramifications of what he had discovered.  Think about how the knowledge, the _true_ knowledge, the intimate details of Mary’s previous profession, would shatter John.  As upsetting as the vague awareness of Mary’s past had been to him, to know all of it would surely destroy him.  Would cause him to lose his wife and, along with her, the baby he was already in love with.

No, Sherlock could take no part in that.  He could not bear to see John suffer any more than he already had. 

So he had lied, told John he had not read the drive, told John that it had to be ruined. 

Sherlock went into his old bedroom, a room that had changed little in the almost 20 years he had been gone.  Unlike Mycroft’s old room the walls were not covered in framed certificates, the bureau not adorned with trophies of achievements past.   So void of any hints as to who its occupant had been the room felt almost sterile.  The only garnishment that suggested there had once been life there was a small picture of a lanky teenaged boy, his arm slung over the red dog that sat next to him, the fingerprints on the glass long cleaned off.

Opening his overnight case, his fingers dug into an inner compartment to pull out the small vial.  The vial of liquid he would use to drug the occupants of the house.  It was time to ‘repurpose’ Mycroft’s laptop.

He had few qualms about his methods.  The stakes were too high to make an error this time, for he had a date.

A date with the devil.

* * *

 

Rage built in John as Magnussen flicked his face.  Flicked his cheeks.  Flicked his nose.  Flicked his fucking eyes.  The finger hitting his skin like cold, pelting rain, one snap at a time.

Flick. 

Flick.

Flick.

It took every bit of self-control he had ever developed not to grab the bastard by the throat, to squeeze the last breath of life out of the piece of slime that Magnussen was.  But no, he endured the humiliation, swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat and held on to what little composure he had. 

“Sherlock?”  John said, seeking guidance from the detective who stood quietly nearby.

“Let him, I’m sorry.  Just…let him,” Sherlock told John, despairing apology in his hushed tone. 

John did as Sherlock said, letting his trust in his friend guide him; Sherlock was rarely wrong and John had little idea of what else to do.  He remained where he was, Magnussen’s amusement with his own game taunting him.

“Come on, open your eye.  For Mary.”

Flick.

Flick.

Flick.

When Magnussen finished his own personal version of debasement, John knew the game was up.  No matter the plan Sherlock had devised, there was no vault, no file that could be secured to keep Mary safe.

He could hear the helicopter blades cutting through the evening air, coming closer.  No doubt to arrest him and Sherlock.  One did not abscond with Mycroft Holmes’ secrets without repercussions, not if they didn’t have something of equal or greater value to offer in return.  And they didn’t. 

John wasn’t angry at Sherlock.  Rarely did he doubt Sherlock’s methods; never did he doubt his motives.  While Sherlock might not always take the most ethical routes in his pursuit of right over evil, the reasons he did so were always surprisingly pure.

As he listened to the helicopter get distinctly closer, he was resigned.  Resigned to being bested by one of the heinous men he or Sherlock had ever known.  Resigned to living a life under constant threat of exposure of his wife’s unsavory past.  Secrets that could explode into the public arena at any moment, ripping his new family apart. 

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes locked on him as he stood, waiting.  Waiting for his life to take one of those dramatic turns that always seemed to happen whenever he accompanied the world’s only consulting detective.  Only _this_ time it had the potential to be far more devastating than any he had ever known. 

The turn came.  It came as suddenly as it was unexpected. 

He felt the cool air on his back as something lifted his jacket.  Felt Sherlock’s fingers connect lightly with him as the weight against his lower spine disappeared.  Saw something dark and metallic extending from Sherlock’s hand as it rose from beside his body.

Rose to fire a shot into Magnussen’s forehead.  Gun barrel touching flesh.

Point Blank.

John’s world tilted, the blast deafening him, the shocking sight of what he witnessed incomprehensible.  What the _fuck_ did Sherlock just do?!

* * *

Sherlock once said ‘love is a vicious motivator.’  It would be true to say the same of fear.

Fear can be a survival mechanism that will cause the intimidated and the courageous alike to make critical decisions in a split second.  Decisions that may dramatically affect them.  For a lifetime. 

In the time it took the sharp report of the gun to die to a small echo in the distance, John Watson made a decision that would have lasting repercussions in every facet of his life, from the fate of his marriage to the path the life of his unborn child would take.

To the ultimate impact it would have on his relationship with his best friend.

* * *

 

John’s disbelief of what he had just seen transformed into horror. Into ice in his veins.

Into a luminous clarity like none he had ever known.

Sherlock had shot Magnussen to wipe clean the newspaper magnate’s mind palace, to eliminate any possibility of Mary’s secrets being used against her. To keep her safe.  And John knew, without any doubt, to keep _himself_ safe. 

For this Sherlock would go to prison.  And even Mycroft wouldn’t be able to save him from himself.  Sherlock would live the rest of his life behind bars; a life John could not imagine would be a very long one.  Sherlock would quite literally die of boredom, locked behind not only physical bars, but into the recesses of a mind that thrived on stimulation and excess, sending him into a madness that would eliminate any quality of life.  And not long after, bring death.

The two years Sherlock had been ‘dead’ after jumping off bloody St Barts had been an eternity, had nearly destroyed John.  He refused to relive that hell.  He refused to allow Sherlock to make that kind of sacrifice again.

No. 

Not again. 

He would not lose Sherlock ONE MORE FUCKING TIME.

This one was on John. 

As Sherlock looked out into the sky, awaiting his fate, his palms already raised high to signify he was no longer a threat, John made a decision he would never regret.  A decision made out of fear, but the nonetheless, ultimately the right one. 

John picked his gun up off the patio from where Sherlock had dropped it, said a soft ‘I’m sorry’ under his breath, and with the butt of the gun connected it in a solid blow to the back of Sherlock’s head.  Sherlock’s head jerked, a low grunt the only sound he made before he swiftly dropped to the ground.   John caught the tall man as he fell and, with some difficulty given Sherlock’s dead weight, eased him the rest of the way to the pavement.

Dropping the gun near Magnussen’s lifeless feet, he walked back to Sherlock and, taking the gloves off limp hands, put them on his own.  Looking at the pale face of his unconscious friend, he felt a pang of guilt despite knowing he had done the right thing.

As the helicopter came into view it shined a bright light onto two downed men and one fearful, but erect, one, whose hands were held high in anticipation of what was to come next.


	3. Unsteady

Sherlock felt the groan before he heard it, felt it vibrate through his head, taking the pain that was there and amplifying it to unspeakable proportions.  For once he wished he was a swearing man, anything to release the pounding that was scattering his thoughts into fragments of incoherence. 

The first recognizable thought he had was of the man he had been trying to protect.  The man he had murdered someone in cold blood for.

“John.”  The name carried from his lips, reaching his ears as though from far away.  Surely it had to have come from another, for he was far too disoriented to have the ability to convert any thought to sound.

“Sherlock,” the voice from somewhere outside him said with concern and urgency.  He knew that voice, a voice that he had not heard speak with such care since he was a child.

What was Mycroft doing here?  And why was he worried? 

Sherlock continued to lie there, lost in a haze between dream and reality while his brain slowly became _him_ again. 

“Sherlock,” he again heard his name, this time accompanied by a brisk slap.  A slap on his cheek that while not painful, was jarring.  His eyes opened.

Yes, yes it was Mycroft. 

“Aahh, there you are.  Stay awake.  I need you to stay awake.”  The worry in Mycroft’s tone had disappeared, but his eyes gave him away, narrowed under his pinched brow.

Sherlock focused on Mycroft’s face.  Not because he was inclined to look at his brother so closely, but because he had to focus on _something_ , elsewise he might get caught in his haze again and not be able to _think._  

Blinking several times to clear his vision, he shakily sat up, pausing to catch his breath which somehow seemed to have escaped him.  Pressing his fingers to his temples to tame the blood that was pushing his brain out of his skull, he forced himself to move his head, to look around to confirm he was still at Appledor.  Seeing only Mycroft and three other men, two in suits and ties and one in a blue forensic jumper, he said his friend’s name again.  Only this time it was a question.

“John?”  It was all he could manage to get out, but it was enough.  Mycroft understood.

Mycroft, trying to read his brother’s awareness, or lack thereof, of the situation, asked, “You don’t remember?”

Gathering some of his wits about him, Sherlock asked tetchily, “Remember what?  If I remembered I wouldn’t ask.  Is he all right?  Is he _all right?_ ”  Really, Mycroft could be so obtuse sometimes.  “John came here with me, there was an…altercation, and then,” he stopped, uncertain how to continue.  Uncertain because he didn’t know what had happened next.  He had shot Magnussen, had heard the approaching helicopter, and then…nothing.  Not until now as he looked at his brother.

“Where is he?” Looking around once again, Sherlock turned slowly in an effort to keep the thrumming in his head to a dull roar.  No John in sight.

“John is well.  Physically anyway.  But, Sherlock, he’s been taken into custody.” 

If the blow to Sherlock’s head had not already had him reeling, he would have been now.

Harshly, he snapped, “Arrested?!  What would John be arrested for?”  That made no sense.  He had been with John the entire time and John had done nothing that would merit an arrest.  Yes, he had been with Sherlock when he took Mycroft’s laptop, but that had been not been John’s doing; he hadn’t even known the intent of their mission until they arrived at Appledor.  If anyone should be arrested it should be him. 

“He’s been arrested for the murder of Magnussen.” Mycroft said.

“John?  Kill Magnussen?!  Ridiculous!”  Sherlock closed his eyes, the outburst causing his head to feel like it was about to explode.  He squeezed his eyes shut.  Hissing through pursed lips he told Mycroft, “I killed Magnussen…”

Mycroft leaned in close to Sherlock, his faintly threatening demeanor doing little to intimidate the younger brother.  “If I were you I should keep my voice down.  We will talk about that someplace a little more private.” 

Sherlock scowled, but did as his brother said.  He touched the back of his head, the sharp stab of pain quickly making him wish he hadn’t.  He looked at his fingers, the blood on them still wet.  Who had hit him?  And why? 

And where were his gloves?  The last he could remember they had still been on his hands.  Pulling the square out of Mycroft’s breast pocket, he wiped his hand as clean as he could, tossing the sullied kerchief onto the patio.

“Tell me what you know.  Why is it you think John killed Magnussen?”  Sherlock was impatient to get to the root of the gross error of John’s arrest.

Mycroft adopted his familiar air of authority as he recounted what he knew.  “When we arrived Magnussen was dead, shot point blank in the forehead, and you were lying on the patio, unconscious.” 

Mycroft concealed his mental shiver as he recalled the moment he had seen Sherlock lying there motionless, the sudden fear that his brother was dead taking him figuratively to his knees.  He shook the image from his head and continued.

“John was standing over you, almost as if he was trying to protect you; he was already reaching his hands into the air in surrender.  The gloves he was wearing, which I later identified as yours, had a smattering of blood on them; the only viable source being Magnussen’s wound.  These matters are circumstantial at best.  But the evidence, if you will, of most interest and import, is that he confessed to killing Magnussen.  Dr. Watson said you and he determined the deceased had memorized information that would incriminate someone important, he would not say who, and that the only way to protect that person was to kill Magnussen.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything at first as he tried to absorb that John had confessed to a murder he didn’t commit.

“I don’t believe you,” he finally asserted.  “John wouldn’t confess when he didn’t do it.  And as I told you ...”

“Yes,” Mycroft interrupted, thinking it would not be useful for Sherlock to keep admitting to cold-blooded murder. “So you told me.  But why would he say he did it when he didn’t?  That makes no sense.  He has nothing to gain and I daresay a great deal to lose.  Why would he admit to committing an act that surely will see him incarcerated for a lengthy period of time?  Especially when he has a child on the way?” 

Though Sherlock reluctantly agreed with the logic to Mycroft’s argument, he also knew John had lied.  The only thing he didn’t know was why.  It was not the first time John Watson was a mystery to him.  He had no doubt it would not be the last.

“Did he say how I was injured?”  Sherlock didn’t recall any one else present, which seemed odd.  Surely Magnussen would have had a security detail given the number of people of Britain who certainly would not mind seeing him come to harm. 

Cocking his eyebrow in skepticism at John’s obvious prevarication, Mycroft said, “He said you tripped and fell.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in derision.  Tripped and fell indeed.  Why hadn’t John just use the domestic abuser’s outlandish excuse of “he ran into the door”, it would have made as much sense. 

“Mr. Holmes?”

Both men turned as an agent came out to the patio from inside the house, nodding his head toward the interior in a request to have Mycroft follow him.

With concerted effort Sherlock stood and, jerking Mycroft’s hand off his arm, unsteadily joined his brother and the agent.  Walking past the body still lying on the patio, the eyes on the corpse looking no more dead than they had when they had been alive, the men went through the large living room to the back of the house.

Walking to the end of a long hallway they came to an elevator that descended into a dimly lit foyer below. What they saw at the other side of the foyer told Sherlock everything he needed to know, but didn’t want to. For what he saw was a 3 metre high steel wall in the middle of which was a set of thick security doors.  Wide open.

There had been a vault after all.  Open and ready for when Sherlock and John had come to meet with Magnussen. 

On the other side of the doors they entered an enormous room, easily the same expanse of the house.   It was a room filled with odd artifacts…and rows and rows of large gunmetal gray filing cabinets; there must have been at least a hundred of them.  Cabinets filled with thick files, all meticulously labeled with the names of, presumably, victims Magnussen had blackmailed over the years.  The files held pages of data ranging from financial histories to known associates, to the names of the pets they had had as children.  There were thousands of files, including one labeled ‘Mary Morstan’.

Sherlock was stunned; he had shot Magnussen for no reason at all.

Had he been more clever he would have found Magnussen’s files and removed them for John and Mary’s safety.  Sherlock would not be a murderer and John would not be on his way to jail.  John’s child would have a father to come home to.

Not that he would willingly admit it, but there had been many a time Sherlock had made an error when solving a case. Always he had been able to right the mistake, his pride still intact, his reputation untarnished.

But not this time; never had he made an error of this magnitude. 

And never with such devastating repercussions.  Because he had missed something so obvious, Magnussen had played him for a fool.  There was no mind palace.

Magnussen had been ready to deal.

_Magnussen had been ready to deal._

His head throbbed with pain, throbbed with the irrefutable evidence of his mistake. A mistake that, instead of keeping his friends safe, would ruin their lives.  The edges of his vision grew dark, narrowing into a small pinpoint of light, until there was no light at all.

For the first and last time in his life, Sherlock fainted.

* * *

 

“Come on, hurry up!  Whaddya think?  I got me all day?” 

With some effort the prison guard attempted to round up the last of the stragglers, moving them inside from the yard as the rain began to soak them through.  Why they would want to stay outside in such hateful weather, he hadn’t a clue, but the thought processes of criminals, from petty thieves to murders, had ceased to amaze or interest him longer ago than he could remember. 

The rain rolling off his hat and slicker only served to dampen his already foul mood.  He hated this job, hated the bloody fuckers who couldn’t keep their hands off other people’s property or other men’s women.  He was counting the days until he and his wife could move to the country, put in a big vegetable garden, maybe put a few cows to pasture. 

487.  That’s how many days until he could say goodbye and good riddance to this hellhole that had sucked the best years of his life from him.

The last two men still in the yard, doing their best to shield themselves from the rain pouring down on them, shared a plastic poncho as they slowly made their way to the prison wing entrance.

“Come on, hurry up!  I ain’t got all day.  If you don’t get a move on I’ll have to give you demerit points.  You.”  The guard indicated the man limping.  “Only a few more and you’ll be in solitary.  Wouldn’t like that would you?”

John, helping the other man walk, calmly, but resolutely, told the guard, “This man stepped on a broken bottle out there.”  He nodded his head to a far corner of the yard.  “The soles of his shoes are thin and it cut all the way through, puncturing his heel.”  Under his breath he muttered, “So much for prison reform.” 

Nearing the end of his shift the guard had lost any good humour he had had at the beginning of it.  “What did you say?”  He accused the smaller man.  “Oh, so _sorry_ your highness.  Perhaps when we get inside I can find you some tea and crumpets and a nice soft pillow for _your sorry arse.”_

The guard whacked the stick on his palm in a not too subtle hint that if they didn’t hurry along he would use it on one of them. 

Getting back to his cell, John gathered dry clothes and made for the showers; a nice hot one would warm his bones back up.   And wash some of the stench of the prison from him; even a few minutes of reprieve from it would be welcome.

Standing under the warm water, his head tilting up to let the spray calm him, he heard the sound of another inmate come in.  He wasn’t concerned about his nakedness.  It hadn’t been long into his internment before he lost any hint of modesty **;** he had quickly learned privacy was an unheard of commodity in prison life. 

The other prisoner stepped close enough to him that John opened his eyes, wondering what the other man wanted.  It was unusual for anyone to shower side by side unless they had ‘business’ to attend to and there was no one here that he felt the need to interact with.

Looking at the prisoner, who was still clothed, John was suddenly filled with a foreboding that this particular prisoner felt he had some ‘business’ to take care of with _him_.  He caught sight of something in the large man’s hand… a crudely fashioned, but still dangerous looking shiv.

Bloody fucking hell.

“I see you’re a friend of Clastenbury’s.  Any friend of Clastenbury’s is an enemy of mine.”  The sneer on the prisoner’s face was so cliché that John almost wanted to laugh.  But he didn’t, knowing without any doubt his life was in danger. 

His shower now forgotten, John shook his head.  “No.  Not a mate of mine.  He was injured and I was helping him out.  Nothing more.”  His mind raced, trying to figure out how to defend himself.  The odds were not in his favor; he had no weapon and the other man easily had 4 stone on him.

“Well, I don’t believe you,” the prisoner said. “Clastenbury is scum.  If I could get near him he would be dead, but until I can, this will have to do.”  The shiv suddenly flew at John with all the might the behemoth prisoner could put behind it.  Despite John’s best efforts the shiv sliced straight into his belly, twisting as it was buried into soft flesh.

John doubled over, trying to cry out for help, but was unable to emit more than a guttural moan as the other prisoner sent a solid right to his jaw, sending him to the shower floor.  He curled in on himself, the agonizing pain scrambling his brainwaves.  From where he lay he could see his blood gushing out, mixing in with the shower water as it emptied down the drain. 

Within minutes his life had seeped from him and he was dead……..

 

 

“JOHN!!”

Sherlock flew up into a sitting position, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his cheeks wet with tears.  As real as it had felt, as much as it had felt as if he had been in the prison right beside John, witnessing the death of his best friend had been but a nightmare.

He pressed his hand to his stomach, experiencing phantom pain from the far too vivid attack, experiencing the pain of a loss he had no doubt, would it have truly occurred, surely would have killed him.  With great deliberation he slowed the intake of his air, measured his exhalations to get the right mix of oxygen, forcing himself to calm down.  But the after effect of the nightmare was a difficult feeling to rid himself of, it had been far too _real._

As Sherlock’s breathing resumed a normal pattern, he opened his eyes.  Adjusting to the darkness around him he saw a figure sitting quietly in the chair at the corner of the room, intently watching him.

Removing his hand from his stomach, he gathered his composure and straightened his back.  Even in a hushed tone, his voice carried easily in the quiet darkness.

“Hello, Mary,” he said.

 

 


	4. Liar

Mary sat in the dark, trying to focus on the gentle rhythm of the rocking chair as she watched Sherlock sleep.  It would not do to get overly upset; it wouldn’t be good for the life she carried inside her.  But the movement that should have been soothing wasn’t helping.  Her festering anger grew as she watched him become agitated, gripping at his covers.  As she listened to the small, agonized moans that erupted into a startling shout.  “John!”

What the hell was he doing?  Dreaming about John?!  Fucking Christ, even when he was sleeping he couldn’t leave her husband alone. Well, _fuck. him._ If this was a contest, she was going to win.  Nothing, and no one, especially not Sherlock Holmes, would get between her and her husband.

She couldn’t remember a time in her life she had ever felt this much hatred for anyone.  Sherlock Holmes.  Self-appointed savant and reviled interloper.

For months she had played the cheerfully devoted girlfriend, then wife, grinding her teeth as she pretended she liked John’s arrogant mate.  As if there was nothing more she welcomed than to have him around day and night.  Doing some of the best acting of her life because she knew if she in any way tried to get between the two men it might cause a rift between her and John.

And now here she was, at Mycroft’s request, ‘nursing’ the haughty sod after he had been responsible for her John being sent to prison.  Sherlock may not have fired the gun, but had he not taken John on his little mission, John would not have shot Magnussen.  John would not have been taken from her. 

She regretted nothing more than that twice the man had not had the decency to die; the first time when he had jumped off St. Barts, the second when she had shot him.  There would be nothing that would make her happier than to see the earth rid of him.  Forever.

As Sherlock awoke, Mary relaxed the fingers that had been tightly locked onto the blanket covering her lap.  She had so far been successful in putting Sherlock off the scent of her revulsion toward him and she was not about to let herself be exposed now. 

* * *

 

Turning on the small beside lamp in Mycroft’s guest bedroom, Sherlock saw what he wasn’t able to see in the dark…the puffy, red-rimmed eyes, the almost undetectable tremble in her lower lip.  Clear indications the woman sitting before him was distraught by the events of the day. 

He must have slept for quite a while; the nearly blinding headache he had had earlier was almost gone.  Touching the back of his head he found his wound had been cleaned; where there had once been blood was now odorous antiseptic and two tiny butterfly bandages that tugged at the roots of his hair.    

Feeling uncomfortable sitting on the bed while Mary was in the room, Sherlock moved to the armchair near where she sat and rocked, her eyes following him.  Taking a tissue from the box, she blew her nose noisily, turning her eyes down in embarrassment at her display of emotion.

Gently Sherlock asked, “Have you seen John?”  He took another tissue and stretched his arm out, handing it to her in preparation for another possible bout of tears. 

Wadding the first tissue to expose a clean side, she blew her nose again.  Her eyes about to well over, Mary shook her head, “No, they wouldn’t let me see him.  They said he has to be processed first; I can’t see him until visiting hours tomorrow.  What happened, Sherlock?  _Why_  did John shoot him?”  The anguish she felt made her voice shake.  “Magnussen was no longer any threat to me.  To us.” 

Sherlock could hear the unspoken accusation, that there had been no need to confront her former blackmailer.  He crossed one leg over the other, smoothing the ripples in his pyjama leg, the distraction buying him time to consider his response. Does he tell Mary the truth?  Does he tell her it was _he_ who shot Magnussen or does he recount the story John told Mycroft?  His mind raced, weighing the benefits and disadvantages of each option. 

“Sherlock?”  Mary prompted, awaiting an answer. 

“Surely Mycroft told you what happened?” Sherlock asked, avoiding a direct answer.  He was aware Mary was, as she had said, not as easily fooled by his lies as was John.  While he would not veer from his vow to do what he could to keep the couple safe, he had absolutely no doubt his friend’s wife would not have been successful in her line of work without a very particular skillset.  And if her aptitude for discerning lies was as good as her shot, she was very skillful indeed. 

“Yes, he did.  But it doesn’t make sense,” Mary said.  “John is not a cold-blooded murderer.  He would never have shot someone without serious provocation, without feeling he was physically threatened, which I understand he was not.”

Sherlock hid his smirk as he thought, “Tell that to the cabbie.” But, ohh, that would make sense…

“I hate to disagree with you, but he _did_ shoot someone several years back.  Someone who was of absolutely no threat to him personally.  I wouldn’t call him a cold-blooded murderer, per se, but he _has_ demonstrated the capacity to protect someone in danger and in this case it was you who was in danger.  If he wouldn’t kill to protect you and your child, then who would he kill for?” Confident he had turned the tables, Sherlock was unaware he had only aroused Mary’s suspicions.

Mary sniffled for effect.  She was quickly tiring of the game, but knowing Sherlock wasn’t quite as clever as he thought he was, helped. 

“And who was he protecting?”  She asked in the most innocent tone she could dredge out of herself, knowing that if she were correct about the answer to the question, she might not be able to hold it together any longer. 

And at that moment, with blinding clarity, Sherlock for the second time in the course of one day realized he had been made a fool of. 

LIAR

                                    LIAR

LIAR

                                                                        LIAR

 

Stupid!  _Stupid_ !  How had he been so blind?!  Mary had never been innocent a day in her life.  Her entire life had been about deception and self-preservation; it had been evident to him since the night he met her.  How could she not have known who Sherlock Holmes was, the most famous detective in London?  John’s best friend?

“Don’t get involved,” Mycroft had told him. 

But no, to keep peace with John, to maintain a friendship with the best and wisest man he had ever known, he had willingly put blinders on and looked at Mary through John’s eyes.  Eyes that saw her as kind and charming and above reproach.  Sherlock pressed his fingers to his temples, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath.

 “Are you all right,” Mary asked, the concern in her voice now recognizable to Sherlock as the hollow façade he should have always known it was.

“Fine,” Sherlock lied, “it will take a bit for this headache to completely go away.  Excuse me, I need a cup of water.” 

Sherlock went into the loo and shut the door.  Turning on the light and water, he placed his hands on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror, repulsed by the man who looked back at him.  At the man who all his life had prided himself on his ability to push caring and emotion aside for the sake of The Work. 

“I’m married to my work,” he had always liked to say, because it was true.  It still was; there was no romantic partnership that would interest him enough to compromise his ability to _think._   But during the two years he exiled himself he came to realize there were people he did care about, and he wanted to no longer take them for granted even if it meant to the detriment of his work.  In doing so, his ability to see those around him clearly had suffered more than he realized.  The mental acuity for which he was so well-known had become clouded to the extent that he had failed to see the threat in the room with him.  Mary.    

He felt a chill run through his body that matched the sudden coldness he felt in his heart.  He would not allow himself to be fooled.  Not again.

He had said at John and Mary’s wedding reception there would only be one vow in his life.  But he was wrong once again and glad to be so, for he would make one more vow.  The only one that now mattered, or ever would.

He vowed to always be there for John and his child, to keep them safe for as long as he was alive.

Mary was on her own.    

Righting himself, his composure fully intact, he went back into the bedroom and sat down.  He steepled his fingers as if readying himself to think.

Sliding his eyes sideways to look at Mary, he told her, “It was I who killed Magnussen.”

Mary’s face remained motionless except for the faintest twinge at the edge of her right eyelid.  If he had needed confirmation of his newfound awareness, there it was.

But he did not.  He had had all the information he needed all along.  He had seen, but not observed.

From here on out he would observe.

* * *

 

A prison never really goes to sleep.  The lights never fully dim, for total darkness gives those inclined to carry on the deeds that brought them there in the first place too much cover to hide.  Too much privacy to protect a man from unwanted sexual advances that those in polite society would call rape.  Give the mentally unstable too much blank space on which to write an alternate reality, to see things that weren’t really there.    

The prisoner in Cellblock C Cell 52 moaned, the sound of his panic carrying through the unit.  “I didn’t do it!” He whaled, doing his best to rattle the hard iron bars that wouldn’t budge. “I’m innocent!  Get me out of here.” 

“Shut the fuck up!” Responded several other inmates, irritated to have their rest interrupted.

Most inmates quickly learned to keep to themselves, not to do so only invited unwanted attention.  Attention that could mean anything from a beating to ridicule.  And only the truly uninitiated declared their innocence to anyone within hearing distance.  For it would be the same as declaring oneself weak, unable to fend off the aggressions of the seasoned criminal. 

John lay on his back with his head resting on his arm, unused to sharing his ‘bedroom’ with dozens of other men, disquieted by the lumpy piece of stuffed fabric they called a mattress.  He knew prisons weren’t designed for comfort, but still, there were basic human decencies that should be afforded any one, whether guilty or innocent. 

The sound of the distressed inmate a dozen cells down was what was keeping him awake.  Always before when he had heard a criminal say he was‘innocent’ he had scoffed.  ‘Sure, he is,’ John had thought countless times over the years, biased by the fact that the police did not arrest and incarcerate innocent people.  But now he viewed things differently, for he knew that he himself was innocent.  He might not be shouting it at the top of his lungs for all to hear, but it was true nonetheless. 

Lying there he had nothing to do but think. 

Think about Mary.  To think about the fact that now that Magnussen was dead and the thumb drive was destroyed she would be safe from her sins of the past.  To think about the child that would grow up without a father, at least for the decade he would be in prison. 

Even now, now that he had time to let the enormity of what he had done sink in, he had no regrets.  On the balance of things John knew he taken the right path.  In time he would be reunited with his wife and child.  And Sherlock would be alive. 

Sherlock.

With reluctance John relived the evening in his head.  To have physically hurt the man he undeniably cared about was taking a greater toll on him than he could have imagined.  He kept remembering the moment he had hit Sherlock, the pain he himself had felt possibly greater than that the detective had felt, for at least Sherlock had had the ‘good fortune’ of falling unconscious, whereas he, John, had had to experience every moment.  The guilt he felt gnawed at him, fearful that perhaps he had struck a blow harder than he had intended, one that could have veered into the lethal; perhaps he had done more than knocked him out and truly done him harm.  Were that to be the case he didn’t know how he would ever be able to salve his conscience.

He remembered that as one of Mycroft’s men had been placing handcuffs on him he had watched as two other agents had lifted Sherlock’s unconscious form onto the sofa.  The image of the pale face, the slack body, refused to fade from his memory.  The thought of anyone putting their hands on Sherlock and him not grousing to leave him alone, felt entirely wrong; Sherlock was never one to let anyone control him without protest.  The unnaturalness of it left John unsettled. 

It didn’t occur to him some might find it odd he was more concerned about his friend than his wife.  Whilst Mary was no doubt understandably upset, despite being pregnant she was strong and healthy; until they were together again she would weather this storm with the same composure she had always maintained.  He knew he would be able to see her the next day and he thought about what he would tell her.  Thought about how he would explain to her that he had killed the man who had once been, and without a doubt, would have one day again been her blackmailer had he lived.  He knew he would have to give the best performance of his life.

John finally fell into an uneasy sleep, the noise fading into nothingness as he willed himself to ignore it.

* * *

 

“Come’on, hurry up, quit dickin’ around.  I’ll put you in your cell and then you can play all you want.”

Late in the morning the guard prodded the prisoner who, obviously new to the ways of the institution, persisted in greeting the other prisoners he passed as if he was a new member of  some strange social club.   The prisoner could barely walk in a straight line, so focused was he on addressing each and every inmate in an attempt to ingratiate himself to his new ‘friends’.  Some prisoners scowled at him, offering the finger; whether it was in invitation or as an offensive gesture was difficult to determine.  Others ignored him outright. One lone prisoner called out “Good luck, mate.” 

As the prisoner and the guard arrived at John’s cell, the guard unlocked the door and pushed the prisoner in, telling him ‘take whichever bunk you like.  Just shut up will’ya.”

The prisoner set his soap and towel on the shelf.  The few clothes he had with him remained in the crook of his arm.  Looking at the small man in the bunk who was doing his best to ignore the commotion, he poked at John’s chest with a long, slim finger.

“Get your arse up, I want _this_ bed,” he hissed, leaning in close to make sure John got the message.  His friendly demeanor had quickly disappeared.

John ignored him.  He didn’t have any need to get into it with anyone, but he wasn’t going to start out prison life by being pushed around.  He had enough sense to know that to show any weakness right off would only lead to misery down the road.  

Undaunted by John’s lack of sociability, the new inmate poked more firmly at John, pressing firmly between two ribs, waiting for a response. “Move!” he added for emphasis.

Realizing that ignoring the arse wouldn’t get him anywhere, John grabbed the offending finger and opened his eyes, ready to deck the ‘poker’.  As his eyes narrowed on the face above him, he sucked in a quick breath.

Springing to his feet, John fisted a clump of the man’s shirt in his hand and roughly pulled the other prisoner to him. 

“You _fucking_ prick!” he whispered. 


	5. Reciprocation

“You _fucking_  prick!” 

John hauled Sherlock to him, one hand still clutching his shirt, the other arm wrapping around to hug the detective tightly to him.  The shock of seeing him not only in the cell with him, but with apparently no serious after effects from his head injury, overwhelmed him.  He squeezed his eyes shut to hold in the rush of emotion that threatened to destroy whatever equilibrium he had left.

Sherlock held John closely to him for the briefest of moments, his heartbeat reverberating against the warm, solid body.  He then pushed John away, demanding in a loud voice, “Get off me, you cretin! I don’t move that fast!”

The confusion that registered on John’s face at Sherlock’s quick turnaround disappeared when he saw the smile in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I told you, I want _that_ bunk, now move your things!”  Sherlock’s booming voice was sure to carry for all to hear.

John had trouble keeping the smile off his face while he did as Sherlock told him.  Whatever Sherlock was on about he wasn’t going to disagree; he didn’t think he had ever been so glad to see someone, and right now whatever Sherlock wanted Sherlock got.  Not that that was unusual, he chuckled to himself.

As he tore the bedding off the sorry bed he had been using, John suddenly grew serious.  “What are you doing here?” He asked in a hushed tone, his head reeling, unhappy to see Sherlock was exactly in the place John had been trying to keep him away from. 

“I have business to take care of,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.  He lowered his voice for the sake of privacy as he sat down on the bed John had cleared, testing it with a pitiful bounce that fell far short of any expectation of comfort.  Looking as if there was no more natural place for him to be than behind bars having a casual conversation, Sherlock watched John as he moved his pile of bedding to the other mattress.

“And just what kind of business can that be, here, in a prison?”

John sat down and took a keen look at his friend, assessing him with a practiced medical eye: skin color - no more or less pale than he was used to seeing; eyes- clear and responsive; motor skills – from what little he had observed all was fine, though he was mildly concerned the fidgeting was absent.  All in all Sherlock appeared to be well, but still John needed to hear it from the man himself.

“You all right?”  John’s concern crept into his voice; his remorse for wounding  Sherlock hitting him hard.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock reassured John gently, having concluded that it had been John who had hit him.  Knowing without any doubt John’s intent had not been to hurt him, but to gain a particular end result that had taken extraordinary efforts to achieve.  What he didn’t know was why John had felt he had had to divert suspicion from the real shooter.

“Why, John?”  Sherlock asked the question without indictment, for after all he knew John well.  Knew John would not hurt anyone without good cause.  It tugged at him to see that the man he looked at appeared to have aged several years in just the few days since he had last seen him.  What end could John have hoped to achieve which would be worth the toll it had so obviously taken on him?

John firmly pressed his lips together.  He didn’t know if he could put into words, _wanted_ to put into words, the anguish he had felt at the thought of what would happen if Sherlock went to prison.  His eyes clouded over as he realized that with Sherlock here with him what he had done might have been for naught. 

“Because,” was all John said.

Sherlock nodded his head and said sagely, “Aaahh, well, that clears things up.” 

“I had reasons.”  If at all possible, John’s lips pinched more tightly together.

“Of course you did.”

“So you didn’t answer _my_ question.  What are you doing here?”  John shook his head, “You stupid git, you’re the only person I know who would deliberately break _into_ gaol.”

“You don’t really think an innocent man should have to stay in prison, do you?  Come now, John.  How did you think this was going to work?  Did you really think I would let you sit in prison knowing I am responsible? Tripped and _fell_ ?”  Sherlock looked at John reproachfully.   

“Did you really think the forensic evidence would support the fact that you, a man 6” shorter than the true killer, murdered Magnussen?  You didn’t think this through, did you.  So to answer your question, ‘Why am I here?’  I came to get you out, of course.”  Sherlock felt it couldn’t be more obvious.

John’s mouth fell open.  “What?!  You stupid arse.  Wandsworth isn’t some country club where you can wander in and out as you please.  It’s a Category B prison built to keep people _in._ ”  His mouth opened and closed twice more as he tried to think of a way to express the depth to which he found Sherlock to be truly ridiculous. 

Sherlock could see John really wasn’t getting this. His elbows resting on his knees he leaned toward John, his eyes penetrating those of the soldier’s. “You would do no less for me.  You have demonstrated on more than one occasion your loyalty to me and this is merely my way of reciprocating.”

John had nothing to say to that, for he knew that since he had gotten married he had been far too self-involved, taking Sherlock for granted and failing to show just how much value their friendship still had to him. 

Mary!  Shite. So caught up was he in the jolt of seeing Sherlock, he’d managed to momentarily forget his wife. 

“Mary!  Is she alright?!  The baby?  She hasn’t been to see me and I’ve been here 4 days now.”  None of the reasons why she had failed to visit could possibly bode well for him.

The sound of Mary’s name quickly dissipated the warmth Sherlock had felt at once again being in the presence of his friend, leaving behind only loathing. He forced himself to keep his gaze steady, for to reveal his true sentiment would only bring questions he didn’t want to answer.

Looking pointedly at John, Sherlock said, “As well as one can expect considering her husband has just murdered a man and has been sent to prison.  But you know our girl,” Sherlock bit his tongue to hide the bitterness he felt at the endearment, “she’s a strong one.  She’ll be fine once this all gets sorted out.  And yes, the baby is fine; there have been no complications.”

“Have you talked to her?  You must have,” John said, answering his own question.  “Why hasn’t she come to visit?”

 As strained as his and Mary’s relationship had been the last few months, he still couldn’t see her turning her back on him; he had no doubt she wanted to remain married to him.  And yes, he was thought to be Magnussen’s killer, but it would be ludicrously hypocritical for her to pass judgment on him over _that_ one.

“Tomorrow, John.  You’ll see her tomorrow.” 

There was nothing more Sherlock wished than that would not to be so; the less John was around Mary the safer he would be.  But there was no way around it.  As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, she was needed right now.

* * *

 

Anthea lifted the mat that lay on the stoop of the cottage, picking up the key from underneath it to unlock the door.  The cottage had been used as a safe house for several years now; her employer often found he needed a hideaway for his ‘business partners’. 

She would have looked out of place in the small village no more than a few kilometers outside of London proper, but the driver, who had brought them in a car chosen specifically for its ability to blend in with the sensibilities of the locals, had parked in the back of the house.  Even in her jeans, Wellington boots, and pea coat, anyone seeing her would have known she was a city dweller; no one else in the village shared the luxuries of finely manicured nails, skin moisturized by top of the line cosmetics, and expensively, yet naturally styled hair.  

The elderly woman she brought with her to ready the cottage immediately went to work, taking the dust covers off the furniture, airing the rugs, and making sure the dishwasher ran smoothly.  She moved through the rooms with efficiency, her familiarity with the space making it obvious she had a history with the cottage far beyond that of someone who every so often tended to the needs of its visitors.  There was almost a loving care with which she attended to her tasks.

Instructing the driver to bring in the luggage, Anthea inspected the rooms, determining where each occupant should be assigned.  She had been told by Mycroft to accommodate the elderly woman with the large room with the windows facing the morning sun.  With little to differentiate the other two rooms, she mentally tossed a coin, choosing one for the younger Mr. Holmes, the other for Dr. Watson.

With the luggage having been carried inside and taken to their respective rooms, she unzipped them, pulling out and hanging up suits, shirts, and jackets in the closets, placing undergarments in the drawers and toiletries in the loo.

Retrieving a pair of keys from her handbag, she handed them to the woman who had joined her.  One key belonged to the Land Rover in the driveway, the other to the desk drawer which now held a loaded revolver. 

Never one much to concern herself with the welfare of others, Anthea nonetheless felt compelled to ask the older woman, “You’ll be alright by yourself?  There’s nothing more you need?”

In response the grey-haired woman unlocked the desk drawer, picked up the revolver, and reassured herself it was loaded.  Cocking an eyebrow, she looked down at the firearm and, patting the barrel, said confidently, “No need to worry, we’ll be just fine. I have England behind me.”  The cool determination with which she met Anthea’s gaze removed any concern the younger woman had about leaving her alone.  Self-preservation in the face of danger must be in the gene pool, Anthea thought. 

Hitting ‘send’ after keying in her text message, she looked around the cottage to make sure she had done all that had been required.  She nodded to the driver; it was time to return to London. 

* * *

 

Darkness possesses contradictory properties; it has the power to both conceal and reveal. 

The dim lighting in the cell gave Sherlock and John enough light to see that each other was there, that neither was alone, but offered enough cover that they couldn’t see the inflections in each other’s eyes, could not witness the fears on the surface of their hearts. 

But something about the cover of darkness also lends itself to safety, providing the courage to reveal what is sitting deep inside.  Perhaps it’s because the eyes aren’t distracted by what they cannot see, reactions that can cause fear to form, words to be cut short.

It was the last night John would have to sleep in Wandsworth prison; it had only been four so far, but it seemed as if it had been a lifetime.  A lifetime of thinking about what had brought him here and where it would take him. 

But this night he felt a measure of comfort, due almost entirely to the man who shared his cell.  It had been almost three years since they had shared the flat at 221b.  When they had, they had never shared the same room, yet somehow it seemed perfectly natural to hear that melodically deep voice just a few feet away from him. 

It was in the darkness that John was able to tell Sherlock why he had taken the blame for killing Magnussen.  Why, in that one crucial moment, it had been more important to him to keep Sherlock safe than to give himself safe passage home.

It was in the darkness that Sherlock allowed himself to share the horror of the nightmare in which John had been killed.  Why he had put himself at risk to break into the prison with the express purpose of breaking John out.

* * *

 

The next day Brian Phelps stood in the IT control room deep in the bowls of HM Prison Wandsworth. 

Forty-three years old and married for 5 years, with his first child days away from birth (a blessing after his wife had suffered miscarriages three times in the first trimester), he could feel himself start to sweat.  Not because the room was overly warm, for it was kept cool to maintain an optimal condition for the extensive computer panels.  But because he was about to commit a crime that, if it went wrong, could put him away until his child was grown up and having a child of his own.  Murder would have had a more lenient sentence than the one for the act he was about to commit; no one committed ‘treason’ against the British penal system without serious consequences.

The salary Brian earned as a skilled tech for Her Majesty’s prison system was more than the average UK worker was paid and comfortably sufficient for his family’s everyday needs.  However, he would have been lying if he said he had not dreamed of the kind of life where he could take a vacation to an exotic location every year, buy his wife the Coach bag she coveted, or make sure his son would be able to attend a top-notch Uni.

Days earlier he had been approached by a blonde, pregnant woman who had offered him everything he could hope for, and more; more than enough money to live _very_ comfortably for the rest of his life without the sacrifice of a day-to-day job.  All he was required to do was disable the electronic security system - doors, gates, and cameras - for a specific 15 minute timeframe.  That’s all.  Just 15 minutes of work in exchange for a lifetime of financial security. 

It had been a decision that was surprisingly easy to make…

* * *

 

Phillip Anderson was heavily disguised as he arrived at the Visitor’s Centre in preparation for his ‘visit’ with Sherlock.  Thank god the staff had not been overly zealous in their pat down; he wasn’t entirely sure how well his fake belly would adhere to him if there were wandering fingers around.  The authentic identification he pulled from his wallet bore the name Fredric Von Heinburg.

Anderson’s role in the escape, while complicit, was not an active one.  His sole purpose was to have someone available for Sherlock to meet so the detective would have a reason to be moved to the visiting room.  From there, others would take over. 

Despite the fact that Sherlock was very obviously alive, Anderson had never gotten over his guilt, never felt he had fully atoned for Sherlock’s ‘suicide’.  It was his hope that today he could sufficiently absolve himself.

Anderson and Sherlock made very, very small talk sitting across the table from each other.   Anderson tried unsuccessfully to keep himself from looking across the room too frequently to where Molly and John sat on opposite sides of a bench from each other, but he was nervous as hell and it was hard to concentrate. 

“Relax,” Sherlock said under his breathe.  “You don’t want to give the guards cause for suspicion.”

“Maybe it’s easy for you,” Anderson said, “but I’m not used to being on the other side of the law.”  He instantly regretted his snide tone; he hadn’t come to antagonize Sherlock.

At precisely 1503 by the clock on the wall, Molly excused herself to use the loo; John stayed where he was, watching the roomful of inmates with their friends and families.

Waiting until there was no one else inside, Molly removed the specially designed heels from her 2” platform shoes; inside each hollowed out heel was a 1.5 inch stick of dynamite.  Next she produced a match from the knot in her hair.  Laying the explosives on the floor as far from the door as she could, she flicked the match on her tooth and lit the ends of the long fuses that she had stretched out as far as she could; she had no desire to accidentally blow her hand off...she would be needing it.  Waiting just long enough to see that the fuses were burning properly, she walked as calmly as she possibly could out of the loo.   

“Oh! You don’t want to go in there, the toilet is clogged!”  Molly said to a woman towing a small child who was putting her hand out to push the door open.  “I’ll let the staff know it needs attention.  There’s probably another loo close by.” she promised, herding the woman and child away.

Just as she arrived back in the visitor room, a deep boom resonated through the building.  

* * *

 

Sherlock avoided Molly’s eyes as she re-entered the room; he could see she was somewhat shaken by the task she had agreed to complete and didn’t want to distract her.  Still, he was proud of her; she had come a long way from the timid girl he had met years ago in the morgue. 

He remained seated, watching the clock on the wall, ignoring the chaos that resulted from the mysterious boom.  Ten, nine, eight… he counted slowly until he reached ‘one’.  The facility alarm went off, alerting those present of imminent danger.  A little late for that, Sherlock thought wryly.  More importantly, the alarm signaled that the locks on the prison doors were now deactivated.  Looking over to where John milled with several others in apparent confusion about what to do, he caught his eye and tilted his head toward the door.

It was time.

* * *

 

In 1965, Ronald Briggs, accompanied by three other inmates, escaped from Wadsworth prison.  It was a relatively simple affair; a rope ladder was thrown over the wall to the exercise yard from the outside and they lowered themselves to an awaiting van. 

In the age of high tech security it took a more coordinated effort, necessitating the aid of three friends, one wife, a bribed prison employee, and a minor official in the British government.  But the escape went smoothly and soon John, with Sherlock beside him, was on the outside.

Mary got out of the driver’s seat of the Saab down the street from the front gate, scooting into the back seat with John, making room for Sherlock to sit up front in order to drive them to the safe house.  Sherlock tuned them out as they whispered to each other, frequently pressing small kisses against each other’s mouths.  It was a conversation he had no interest in; the displays of affection he had even less so.   

Arriving unimpeded at the cottage, Sherlock parked the car next to the Land Rover.  After they got out of the Saab, Sherlock stood waiting for John, his back turned to the couple. 

“No, Mary, you have to go back to the flat,” he heard John say.  “We’ll be safe here and if you don’t go home it will look suspicious.  Best not to have you implicated in this.”

“Besides,” John said softly, “you need to be near the hospital in case the baby decides to make an early arrival.”  He put his hand on her belly, feeling for movement; he’d not yet been there at the right time to feel the miracle of the baby moving.  Mary placed her hand over his and kissed him one more time.

“Yes, dear, I’ll give you this one.” She smiled regretfully, reluctant to say goodbye.  Looking down at her stomach she told it, “Say ‘bye’ to Daddy,” looking at John once more before telling Sherlock in a voice free of the weariness that had been there a moment before, “Keep my John safe.”

Sherlock turned back to John and Mary, seeing the look in her eyes that held the same challenge as the nearly undetectable stress on ‘ _my_ John’. 

“Oh, not to worry Mary, he’s in _very_ capable hands.”  To keep up appearances he cleared the few steps between them and gave her a hug before holding the door open for her to get back into the car. 

Leaning down to kiss Mary one more time, John shut her door and waved as she backed out of the driveway to the road.

Opening the back door of the cottage, Sherlock casually entered as though he belonged there, walking through the kitchen to plant a kiss on the cheek of the old woman standing by the sink, giving her a warm hug.  “Hello, Mum.” 

“Hello, love.  It went well?”  Mum wiped her hands on her apron and patted Sherlock on the cheek.

Hearing the exchange as he made his way through the door, John’s head whipped toward where mother and son stood.  Mum!?  “Your mother’s here?!  Isn’t this a little dangerous to bring your _mother_ along?  After all, I just sent my wife away!”  Though he could see perfectly well that Sherlock’s mum was there, a part of him was still disbelieving.

“This is Mum’s childhood home,” Sherlock said as he moved toward the refrigerator; he was famished.  “But I assure you, despite appearances, she is no wilting lily; she was a MI5 agent for a decade before she and Dad married and got pregnant with Mycroft.  She is still quite proficient with a firearm.” 

Finding nothing of interest in the fridge, Sherlock picked an apple out of the basket on the counter, taking a bite as he looked over it at John.

“Christ! Is there _anyone_  in your bloody family who is normal?!”  John cast a sidelong look at Mrs. Holmes.  “Sorry, so sorry.” 

Stopping mid-chew, Sherlock looked quizzically at John, over at his mother, and back again at John.  Swallowing the food in his mouth he answered, “All of us are.  But if you’re concerned about aberrations I suppose Dad is the one you would be talking about; he is the only one who seems resigned to an ordinary life.” 

Smiling enigmatically, Mum said to Sherlock, “Don’t be too sure about that, dear.  We haven’t told you boys _everything._ ”


	6. A. G. R. A.

**Moscow, Russia 1985**

Hearing gunfire, the policeman patrolling the Totchka whipped his head toward the sharp report.  Seeing a girl run out of a tent as if the devil was on her heels, he ran after her; she was fast, but his height gave him the advantage.  Catching up to her, he reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her flight.

“Let me go you bastard!” she cried in her native Russian, struggling to free herself.  “Let me go or I will shoot you, too!”  She sucked up the juices in her mouth and spat at him, hitting him on the cheek.  Whipping the gun from around her back where it hid, she stilled her body.  Her arm steady, she took aim at him. 

With a practiced eye, the officer took in the girl’s filthy hair, the blood spattered clothing that was far too skimpy to shield her from the brisk evening air.

“Give that to me!” He demanded, holding his hand out for the gun.  Scoffing, his experience with far too many street-tough girls told him she would not make good on her threat.  Though it was evident she had shot someone, she wouldn’t do it again; it took true insanity to shoot a police officer. With execution a certainty for such a crime, it would not be worth the trouble.

Assigned to the Tochka for 5 years now, little surprised him.  Had he thought about it, he would have been sad for one so young to be selling her body, but he was pragmatic enough to know it was sometimes the only way a woman could survive.  They either had no place else to go or they were the breadwinners in their families, their husbands too drunk to hold down a job. Judging by the looks of this one she was too young to have a husband, perhaps her parents had abandoned her.  Often there were too many other mouths at home to feed to worry about a child so close to being able to take care of herself.

The girl stared back at him, unafraid.  Her hostility grew; the resentment she felt at being pushed around by one more man stoked the fire raging in her.  She couldn’t know this one wasn’t like the rest, that he wouldn’t try to take something from her she hadn’t offered.  Yes, she had just killed someone, but the john had deserved it.  Sodomy was not on the menu… prostitute or not, she had the right to say how her body was used.

One hand still on her arm, the officer reached out the other to take the gun from her; he would call her bluff.  He froze as he saw her eyes lose their defiance, swallowed by a hollowness he had never seen in one so young.  The split second before she pulled the trigger, he knew her pretty, young face would be the last thing he would ever see.

* * *

 

Nikolai Vetrov watched as a policeman half-led, half-dragged the girl down the hall to the interrogation room.  Even from where he sat in his office, he saw the blood on her clothes, the fresh bruises on her cheek, the hatred in her eyes.  Seeing the contempt for the officer radiating from her, Nikolai concerned himself little for her state of mind; killing an officer of the law was the most egregious crime one could commit and he held little sympathy for her indignation.  But his interest was piqued by the young woman despite the seriousness of her crime, or perhaps because of it.  Rarely did one see such an act of defiance and courage (for yes, it did take courage to murder a police officer in cold blood) in someone so young.

Shuffling the papers on his desk, he could not stop thinking about her.  His preoccupation with the look in the girl’s eyes lasted long after he went home for the night.

* * *

 

“Would you prefer to die?”

The girl stared at the wall in front of her, giving no indication she heard the question asked of her.  Her prison clothes drab but clean, her hair free of grease and blood, she was still easily identifiable as the semi-wild animal arrested three days earlier.

“I promise your death will be neither easy nor pleasant.  I promise you will beg for mercy many times before you are allowed the relief of death.  Is that what you wish? To feel a pain so unbearable you will be on your knees begging us to execute you?”

Silence greeted the man as he dispassionately tried to persuade her to consider the alternative. Walking slowly around where she sat handcuffed to the chair, he watched her, seeking even the slightest reaction.  It pleased him to see she had none, for the ability to control one’s emotions was one of the very qualities he was looking for. 

“Not only will you live,” he continued, “but you will have the opportunity to kill again.  And you will be richly rewarded for it.”  Finally the clear blue eyes turned toward him.  Aahhh, he had her attention.

Now meeting her eye-to-eye with a smile that reached his lips, but not his eyes, he assessed her interest.  He wanted this one; she was young, intelligent and ruthless.  With extensive tutoring in who truly had the upper hand, she would be malleable to their needs. 

Yes, he wanted this one very much.

She would make an excellent agent.

* * *

 

**Present Day**

With a faint tremble in her hand, Mary took the envelope from the post box and stared at it.  Unaccustomed to anything upsetting her emotional equilibrium, just the very fact that she was nervous unnerved her.  She had been so certain her past was behind her, but the envelope in her hand told her otherwise.  It was the fourth of its kind in the last four days.  The series of ‘letters’ was a threat, she had no doubt. 

Beginning to arrive just two days after John was arrested for killing Magnussen, the envelopes were generic, bulk-purchased stationary; their origin would be difficult to track.  Each looked the same: no return address, computer-printed, bearing no personal markings.  Each stamp bore the postmark of a different postal station, four disparate locations in the Greater London area.

Each envelope contained one page, blank save for a single word typed in Russian lettering:

 **A** lexis

 **G** alina

 **R** uslana

 **A** ntonovich

 

**A. G. R. A.**

Using the name Mary for so many years, her birth name looked strange to her.

Who sent these? 

She moved around the flat, pretending to straighten an immaculate kitchen, re-making an already flawlessly made bed, every few minutes returning to the kitchen table to examine the envelopes and their contents.  Nothing came to her.  Nothing that made sense.

No one alive knew her real name.  No, there _should_  be no one alive who knew it. The only possibility being John and that was only _if_  he had viewed the information on the memory stick.  But he said he had not and lying was not his forte; she would have sensed his untruthfulness.  Besides, the prison would not let him post letters in his first week and, more significantly, there was no reason for him to send her a veiled threat.

Mary briefly considered the possibility Sherlock sent the letters or had someone do it for him.  John trusted his friend as he did no other and might have shown him the stick. But Sherlock did not bait people; his arrogance would force him to confront her head on, no subtlety for him. 

No, neither John nor Sherlock sent the letters.

Charles was dead.  Moriarty was dead. 

Who sent them? Who wanted to expose her?  Worse yet, who wanted her dead?

Her hand stopped trembling as she lay it on her large belly,.  Drawing a deep breathe, she resolved once again to allow nothing, and no one, to come between her and what she wanted. 

* * *

 

Sherlock was behind it.  He had no doubt.

Slumping down on the sofa in his office, for the first time in 16 hours Lestrade was off his feet.  Not even the cracks in the sofa’s ancient vinyl, the ones insolently poking him in the back, could convince him he didn’t deserve a little down time.

Yesterday’s prison break had been the worst fiasco he had dealt with in his career.  It took all of his staff, including those he called in on their day off, to round up the dozens of escaped prisoners.  All had been re-captured.  All except John Watson and a mysterious prisoner by the name of Scott McGuire.  Unfortunately, along with the CCTVs going bust, recent videos and prisoner photos had been destroyed, so there was no visual record of McGuire.  Witnesses described McGuire as tall, ginger-haired, and green-eyed with cheekbones like Tom Hiddleston’s.  Whoever _that_ was.  

He would eventually get to the bottom of the escapes, and when he did, he had no doubt the instigator would be a certain consulting detective.   Who else would go to so much trouble to get Watson and this McGuire bloke out?

Slimy bastard. 

Toeing his shoes off and using his trench coat as a makeshift blanket, Lestrade sank into the sofa, fatigued almost to the point of exhaustion.

“Boss!”

Lestrade groaned at the intrusion.  “Not now Donovan, I need some shut eye.  Unless the Queen herself is asking for me, which we both know will take a cold day in hell for that to happen, I’m taking a nap. Shut the door behind you on your way out. ”

“I’m sorry sir, but you’re _not_ going to believe this.”

Lestrade lifted one eyelid, the urgency in Donovan’s voice telling him whatever she wanted him to see was not insignificant.  Donovan, as strident as she could sometimes be, was not known to get excitable over trifles.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

Putting his shoes back on, Lestrade hauled himself up, his weariness making him a little unsteady on his feet.  Looking through the glass walls of his office to the workroom floor, he saw his staff huddling in groups of two or three, nodding at their computer screens, pointing at the TV in the far corner of the room.   The looks on their faces to a man, and woman, were ones of bewilderment.

At a loss as to what could be causing their reactions, he left his office. The sound that greeted him wasn’t one heard often in the digital age; it was the sound of television static.  Static multiplied many times, seeming to come from every monitor in the office, whether computer or television. 

Amidst the static, he heard an odd voice, a voice sounding as if it had been computer-altered, giving it an eerie feel. 

And on the screens, each and every one of them, was the face of Moriarty.

“Jesus,” Lestrade muttered under his breath, shocked.

“Did you miss me?  Did you miss me?”  The voice asked over and over in a maddening loop.

“The phones won’t stop ringing, Sir.  Everyone is calling to report their TVs are airing the same thing.  Homes, pubs, even the Jumbo Tron at Wimbledon and at Picadilly Circus.  Moriarty on all of them.”

Lestrade wiped his hand over his face in disbelief.

Christ.

* * *

 

Sherlock and Mum sat at the small table in the breakfast nook, the pot of tea they shared near empty.  The room was a comfortable one; as old as the cottage was, despite no one having lived there for any length of time for many years, it still felt like a beloved home.

Both light sleepers, they woke early to the sound of the distant sheep bleating their discontent at being disturbed; the dog  herding them was far too energetic in his goal to get them to the next pasture.  Seeing as it was still only six in the morning, Sherlock was not concerned John had not yet risen; he knew the doctor was more of an eight o’clock man.  And even at that late hour he could still sometimes be a bit tetchy from not having enough sleep.

“Tell me about John.”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his newspaper, humming only a vague ‘mmmm?’ in response.

“He used to be your flatmate, right?  Not that your father and I would know such things, but Mycroft told us.  One would think you were still a teenager the way you keep to yourself.” 

“Well, there’s not much to say, now is there?”  Sherlock said absently-mindedly, engrossed in an article about new discoveries of the eating habits of sand crickets. 

“About John?”  Mum persisted.

Clearly he wasn’t going to be able to finish until his mother got whatever it was she wanted.  Sherlock sighed, exasperated, and inelegantly folded the newspaper, setting it on the table.

“Now what is it you want?”

“Just a simple question, dear.  Tell me about John.” 

“John is a doctor and former army Captain.  He’s married with a baby on the way, 168 cm, sandy-blond hair that is going gray…far too quickly, I might add, not quite sure marriage is doing him any good in _that_ department.  Let’s see.  He’s left-handed, has type O blood, but _doesn’t_ have a driver’s license, is an _excellent_  marksman…”

“No dear.  I don’t want statistics, I want to know _who_ he is, his personality traits, how he treats people.”

“Why?”  Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously, not understanding what she was getting at.

“Because I want to know how badly he’s going to break my son’s heart.”

“What do you mean ‘how badly he’s going to break my heart’?”  He really didn’t understand the gibberish she was on about.

“Because you’re in love with him.” 

Mum sat looking at her youngest boy, her compassion softening her face.

“I don’t know what that means.  In love.  Love is for greeting card companies and people who intend to procreate.”

“Me, I would never have noticed, but your dad…your dad is the romantic one.  He was the one who pointed it out when you were home at Christmas.  He was right you know; the way you look at John when you think he doesn’t see you…well, that’s how Dad still looks at me even after all these years.”  She smiled fondly at the thought of her husband, grateful for her good fortune to have found a man who could still make her heart skip a beat after all these years.  Her greatest regret was that her boys had not found anyone to love them as she was loved; she knew her life would have been empty without the love of her life.

She watched as Sherlock processed what she said.  She could almost see the cogs in his brain turn, fueled by the pursed lips, the furrowed eyebrows.  He didn’t look at her, instead shifting his eyes every few seconds to settle on a different object in the room. 

“Do you remember Troy?”

“Of course I remember him; he was my lab partner three years in a row at Uni.”

“So you remember being madly in love with him and he didn’t take any notice of you, well, not in that way, anyway…”

“I wasn’t in love; I merely was intrigued by his theories on the possible genetic transference of criminal tendencies.  He hypothesized that in an individual with a criminal past, the X chromosome mutates at conception causing…”

“Yes, all very interesting, but that’s not what I’m talking about.  I’m talking about how you felt about him; you were in love with him.”

“So why do you bring him up now?  That was years ago.  I’ve forgotten all about him.” Sherlock dismissed his mother’s attempts to bring up memories that held no value in his present day life, annoyed she wasn’t easily deterred.

“Do you remember how crushed you were when he met that boy from Brazil?  You were so heartsick you wouldn’t eat for weeks.  We had to cancel your line of credit so we could get you home and see to it you ate.”

“I’ve never been ‘heartsick’, as you call it, a day in my life. I merely had a persistent strain of flu that was going around.”

“Call it what you will.” Mum sighed, wondering how she managed to raise two such stubborn children to adulthood; it was a minor miracle. 

“The point is, you don’t give your heart easily, but when you do there’s no holding it back.  If you don’t acknowledge how you feel about John and guard your heart, I fear you may never be able to recover. Dad and I are getting old; we may not be there to make sure you survive it.” 

Sherlock looked at his mum, the keenness of her mind shining through her eyes even though she was in her seventies; he still feared the astuteness as much as when he was a boy.  Even though he had always resented her ability to understand him, he almost always at some point acknowledged she was right.  His mind shrunk from the possibility she was right this time.

Sherlock’s mobile rang.  Far too enthusiastically he pointed at it, the exaggerated “sorry” on his face not fooling his mum in the least.   That was until his expression changed into a true look of annoyance when he saw who the call was from.  

Impatience filled his voice as he curtly said, “What now?” 

“By the way, you are welcome.”

“Welcome for what?  You should never have arrested him in the first place.  You know very well he is innocent.”

“I didn’t call to argue.”

“Then why did you call?”

“Well, if you really want to know…”

“I haven’t time for your games, Mycroft.  What is it?”

“Turn on the TV. Your friend, the one you assured me died; he appears to be very much alive. ”

Sherlock turned on the small set in the corner of the sitting room.  What he saw and heard turned him to stone. Unconsciously pressing his thumb to the mobile, he cut off his call with Mycroft.

“Did you miss me?  Did you miss me?”

“What is it Sherlock?”  He heard his mother call to him from the kitchen.

Sherlock didn’t answer, turning his back to her as he hurried to wake John.


	7. The Dance

Sherlock paused, his hand on the knob of John’s bedroom door.

Too much.  It was all too, too much. 

He spun around and walked back to the kitchen, throwing open cupboard after cupboard, reaching high above his head as he searched the shelves.

“They’re not there, dear.”

“What?!  Mycroft always leaves a pack for when he visits.  Now where ARE they?!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.  You don’t need those ridiculous things; they aren’t good for you.  I threw them away.”

Sherlock whipped around, glaring at his mother.  Meeting her steely gaze, he wisely backed off.  But he wouldn’t apologize; she didn’t understand.  He needed the nicotine so he could _think._

Moriarty resurfacing.  Mary full of lies and betrayal.   And John, well… he just didn’t know.  It was all too much, as if the world created a special hell just for him; the fire searing his skin as it rained down on him.

His fingers to his temples, he tried to massage away the noise battering his skull. 

Striding quickly outside, Sherlock rummaged frantically through the Land Rover.  Glovebox.  Spare tyre compartment.   Under the right passenger floor mat.  In the driver visor…ahhhh.  He pulled a cigarette from the pack and went into the house, turning a burner on; he didn’t have the patience to search for a lighter, too.

“You’re not smoking that thing in the house.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll not contaminate your precious air.”

Outside one more time, Sherlock sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, waiting for the pleasurable pain it would bring him.  Waiting for the smoke to swirl out his nostrils, wondering why he ever gave up the habit.  Nothing calmed him, swept the cobwebs from his brain, quite like a good dose of nicotine.  He didn’t care if it _could_ kill him; it was worth the risk to put his world back in order.

But not this time.  This time the smoke made him cough, the burn on his throat irritating instead of soothing.  Grinding the half-smoked cigarette into the dirt under his toe, he glared at the mash of tobacco, damning it for its inability to rescue him.

* * *

 

Sherlock tapped lightly on John’s door and hearing no response, turned the knob and walked into the bedroom.  Moving to the bed, he hesitantly reached out to wake John, his arm stopping halfway.  John looked younger than he did when in prison; gone were the extra years those few days in lock-up put on his face. 

When John lived at Baker Street, Sherlock rarely saw him sleep.  John occasionally fell asleep in his chair or at the desk, but never had Sherlock seen him so comfortably ensconced.  Looking at his friend, the detective felt he missed something important by never seeing him rest like this.  Awake, John almost always looked as if he were in motion; there was something tightly wound about him.

Not now.   

Looking peaceful and rested, John slung his arm over his head, his hair sleep-mussed.  The words his mother said flitted through Sherlock’s mind, ‘Because you’re in love with him.’  He shook his head in protest, now was not the time.  Moriarty had returned; he needed to concentrate on _that_.

‘He’s going to break my son’s heart.’  Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut to rid himself of the distraction.  Not now, Mum.

Opening his eyes, the detective cocked his head and studied the sleeping man… the graying hair, the face softened in sleep, the flickering eyelids dreaming about…what?  Sherlock felt a calm the cigarette failed to bring him…his heartbeat slowed, his breathing evened, his fingers stopped searching for something to still them.

On a lark years earlier, for normally it would not have interested him, he read a book detailing how a psyche soothed when one gazed at things of beauty: an emerald green meadow, the breeze dancing through its tall grasses; a fondly-remembered painting, perhaps Girl with a Red Hat by Vermeer; a stunning piece of architecture.

A beloved face. 

The fire that rained on Sherlock’s skin disappeared as he watched John’s face.  This must be what that book talked about.  Despite the chaos of the last few days, despite knowledge of the immense hurdles to come, Sherlock’s body relaxed.  And even if he couldn’t say he was in that moment happy, he could assuredly say he found a measure of contentment.   

What his mum said was true, then.  He was in love with John.

With as much certainty as he now knew he loved and was in love with John, Sherlock also knew it was not a recent development.  It sat on his heart from the beginning, waiting to be revealed. 

His eyes never leaving John, Sherlock withdrew the hand still reaching out to touch him and backed into the chair sitting at the wall. Resting his elbows on his knees, he pursed his lips against his upraised fingers. 

In love with John.

It explained so much.

It explained why he faked his own death and ruthlessly tracked and eliminated Moriarty’s men.  It explained why, on the happiest day of John’s life, Sherlock left the wedding reception early.  It explained why he had not seen Mary as a threat; Sherlock’s desire to see John happy suppressed what he knew to be true about her. 

It explained why he killed Magnussen.

Yes, despite denying it to his mother, Sherlock loved Troy all those years ago.  But what he felt for that college boy was nothing compared to how he now felt.  Nothing he felt for Troy in any way prepared him to be in love with his best friend.  In love with John, Sherlock at some point switched the focus of his life to the small but sturdy man.

Sherlock took a deep breath and again closed his eyes. What now?

He didn’t know. 

So lost in thought was he, he didn’t hear John yawn and stretch, now awake.

“You alright?  Nothing’s wrong with the baby….or Mary, is there?!”

Opening his eyes, unable to completely clear the pensiveness from his face, Sherlock murmured, “Mmmm, no, no, they’re fine.”

“What’s wrong, then?  Clearly something’s upset you.

 John.  If you only knew.

“Moriarty’s alive.”

“What the…!  Fuck!  How?!  You saw that bastard die.”

Sherlock shook his head, perplexed.  “I did, John.  He was barely a metre away from me.  But moments ago, at Mycroft’s prompting, I turned on the telly.  Apparently the same image of him and his message are broadcast simultaneously on all the tellies and computer monitors in Britain.”

“How do you mean, ‘message’?”

“He says ‘Did you miss me?’ over and over.  It has an electronic overtone to it which makes it sound as though it’s been digitalized, but it _is_ unmistakably his voice.”

“I, for one, do not bloody well miss him.”

“I saw him die right in front of me, John; you can’t fake a gunshot to the head.  I was so careful to eliminate every last person associated with him.   Two years.  Two years of my life wasted, for nothing.”  Leaving unsaid, ‘Two years I would have had you by my side.’

In his distraction Sherlock lost track of the horrifying meaning Moriarty’s ‘resurrection’ held: John would still be in danger. 

John startled at Sherlock’s gasp of realization.  “What?  What’s wrong, Sherlock?” 

“Nothing.”

Everything

* * *

 

“Really, Sherlock?  _REALLY_?!  Nope, no way.  No way am I leaving the house looking like this!”

“But John, I think you look lovely, really.”  The laugh Sherlock barely contained, the little spurts of air forcing themselves from his clamped lips, said otherwise.

“Tell me again why I have to dress like this to go into London.”  His hands on his hips, John glared at Sherlock.

The serious situation they found themselves in once again reflected on Sherlock’s face; this truly was no laughing matter.  No matter how ridiculous John looked dressed in Mum’s clothes, they would protect him.  If it meant wearing a dress, then so be it. 

“You’re dressed like this because you’re an escaped convict, or don’t you remember?”

“Of _course,_ I remember, I’m not an idiot you know!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, allowing John to have another run at that one.

“Okay, maybe I’m an idiot, but not even idiots forget they broke out of prison.  _Someone_ has to look after your sorry arse.  But your mum’s clothes?  Really!?  You’re a master of disguise; you can come up with something more manly!”

“I said it could be dangerous and _you_ said, ‘I’m attracted to it, or don’t you remember pointing out that humiliating tidbit’.  So-o-o, if you want to go with, you need a good cover.  If I may point out, _any_ version of a short…,” seeing John’s scowl, the detective quickly amended, “a male with your stature accompanying me will surely draw attention, but as my _mum_ , well, we’ll get by.  Just don’t speak.  I will say you have laryngitis.  Or something.” 

As John huffed, Sherlock adjusted the scarf covering his silver-blond head to better hide the faint hint of stubble refusing to be completely razored away.

Mum stood by, watching the exchange between the two men, watching the way her son’s fingers lingered as they tightened the knot beneath John’s chin.  Watching the way his eyes lingered on the doctor’s face.

Even in the short time since she cautioned Sherlock to guard himself, she already saw a change in him.  And it wasn’t one for the better.   Her hope had been he would confront his feelings and extract them, but to her regret, it only seemed to have fueled them.  Now he was aware of his feelings he relished them.  And John. 

It discomfited her not only to see Sherlock’s attachment to John, a characteristic rarely on display, but she saw the look of genuine fondness on John’s face as the shorter man tilted it up to have his scarf attended to.  Mum didn’t know the state of John’s relationship with his wife, but she needed to intervene.  Now.

“Here John, these will help.” Mum handed him a pair of Audrey Hepburn glasses to complete the look.  “There, now your face is almost totally concealed.”

* * *

 

In the plush lounge of the loo, Mary stood in front of the mirror, talking on her mobile as she applied Scarlet Vixen lipstick.  She and John never frequented such posh establishments, but she arranged a special meeting and the restaurant offered just the right atmosphere.

“Hi, love… Fine, fine, of _course_ I am.  I miss you, John; it’s dreadfully lonely here at the flat without you… Janine called; she suggested we head down to Brighton Beach for the weekend, you know, get a bit of fresh air.  Distract myself whilst you’re hiding out.”

Blotting her lips with a tissue she plucked from the box, she continued assessing her reflection.

“You think so…  You really won’t mind?  I’ll just be gone a few days…  Oh, John, I’m looking out the window and the cab’s here to take us to the station. Don’t worry if you call and I don’t answer.  Janine said the little beach house she’s rented has the most _horrible_ cell coverage…  Yes, there’s a doctor in the village just in case the baby decides to make an early appearance…  Okay, I will.  Bye, I’ll call you when I get back.  Give my love to Sherlock.”

She cringed at her reference to Sherlock and tossed the mobile into her bag.  Taking one last look at her image in the mirror, she couldn’t help but think she didn’t look half bad for a woman almost nine months pregnant. 

Walking back into the dining room to join her companion, she smiled widely, her face alight with a glow that could not be attributed to her pregnancy. 

“Sorry I took so long, love, I wanted to look just right for you.  When one’s in this condition it takes a little extra care.”

“Oh hush, you look every bit as lovely as I remember.” 

The smile on her companion’s face held no guile.  He had always found her beauty compelling and did no less so now despite the fact she carried another man’s child. He stood up and pulled the chair out for her. When he bent down and gave her a soft peck on the lips, she wiped a smear of bright lipstick off the corner of his mouth with her thumb.  To anyone viewing it, the intimate smile they shared would appear to be that of a couple deeply in love. 

Mary laid her hand down in the middle of the table, waiting for her companion to seat himself and take hold of her offering.  Finished reading the menu, her hand still in his, she looked around the room while he deliberated his selection.  A smile playing on her face, she admired the fine surroundings.  Linen napkins, crystal and china, fresh flowers.  The waiters in suits and bow ties.  The guests dressed, midday, far finer than she ever would on a special night out. 

Her eyes moved around the room, taking in the faces of the rich and elegant; people who likely never worked a hard day in their lives.  The woman with the almost imperceptible plastic surgery whose face looked a good twenty years younger than her hands.  The man with the noticeable hair implants, touching the bare shoulder of a woman young enough to be his granddaughter, looking as if he could eat her right then and there.  The man in his late forties wearing a three piece suit and tie; his eyes beading on her, the glacial look in them cold enough to make ice feel comfortably warm… 

Oh dear Christ.  Mycroft.

* * *

 

Sherlock and John stood on the roof of St Bart’s. 

They had been to the hospital many times since ‘the fall’.  The ordinariness of life since Sherlock returned always overrode the vivid memories of that dark day, allowing them to be pushed into the shadows

For John, who had never been to the roof, he felt a strong empathy for what Sherlock must have gone through.  As he stood looking at London’s skyline, he felt as if he vicariously re-lived the moments Sherlock experienced in that half hour before his friend put his life on the line.  Negotiating with Moriarty.  Witnessing the master criminal shoot himself.  Sherlock finally determining how he would escape- would he risk death by faking it or simply walk through the roof outlet down the stairs? 

No matter how many times Sherlock said he was unaffected by the events of that day, John knew no one could live through them and not be haunted.  Not even Sherlock.

No, John did not like standing on the roof of St. Bart’s, not only because of what Sherlock had been through, but because for John it was the scene of the most devastating day of his life. 

He turned his attention to where Sherlock explained what happened that day.  The detective swept his hands in an arc along an imaginary line on the roof’s floor. 

“This is where we stood.  We circled each other, a macabre game… a dance almost, wondering who would give first. 

He pulled the gun; pointed the barrel inside his mouth.  There was a gunshot.  Deafening, of course, with the range I was in.  I remember I jumped back, my ears were ringing.  He dropped to the ground.”

Sherlock knelt, splaying his hands palms down, defining for John the length and position of the body.

“He lay there, instantly dead.  I didn’t bother with much more than a glance.  I caught sight of a pool of blood forming below his head before I looked away, before I had to execute my next steps.  There was so little time and he was obviously dead; I had no need to examine him.”

I walked over to the roof edge…”

Sherlock walked over and stood where he had called John on his mobile, looking down at the buildings below him, the wind whipping his hair and coat as it had that day.  The fact that the bright sun didn’t compare with the gloomy sky of his memories did little to soften the sadness suddenly hitting him.  So much was lost that day.  Too much.

“Sherlock!”

“What?”

“Get… get back here.  Get off that bloody ledge!”

Sherlock turned and looked at John, seeing raw anger and fear in eyes no longer hidden behind glasses.  Seeing the heaving chest trying to catch its breath.  Sheepishly attempting to distract John, for Sherlock knew well how devastating his ‘death’ had been for the soldier, he said, “John, you might wish to hold onto your skirt, it _is_ quite windy up here and you don’t know who might be watching from one of the other buildings.” 

“ _No_ , Sherlock.  This, _this_ , you don’t joke about.”  His voice shaking with emotion, John pointed at Sherlock, refusing to be denied.

The forced amusement faded from Sherlock’s face, replaced by genuine contrition. “I’m sorry, John.”

His eyes still locked on Sherlock’s, John breathed heavily through his nostrils for several moments, steadying himself.  Nodding curtly, “All right, then, let’s take a look at the possibility he _didn’t_ shoot himself.   Close your eyes.”

“What will closing my eyes help?”

“Sherlock, for once just do as I say.  Jesus.”

Annoyed, Sherlock closed his eyes; his impatience with the exercise spread through his body, his heel persistently tapping the roof beneath it.

“Okay.  Think about the moments after Moriarty shot himself.  What did you see?”

“I already told you, John, he shot himself and I looked away.  I didn’t watch him lying there.”

“Look at him _now_ , Sherlock; don’t look away.  What did you see?  What did you observe?  What color was the blood?  Did his chest rise and fall even once?  Did he blink or move his eyes even minutely?”

John watched Sherlock as his knee stilled, as his hands steepled at his mouth.  As he once again lived those seconds after Moriarty shot himself. 

While he waited for Sherlock to access his subconscious memories, John looked around, the crests of the ancient buildings nearby proud and sturdy.  Those descriptors fit Sherlock as well.  As infuriating and downright flaky as he could sometimes be, John knew few people with the inner strength and certitude of his own abilities as did Sherlock Holmes.  Many people were overly confident, many were proud to the point of boorishness.  But whereas their arrogance would tip into self-righteousness, Sherlock was apt to tip into _rightness._   The detective would not be one to label it morality, but that’s exactly what it was. 

Three minutes passed before Sherlock finally spoke.

“John?”

Looking back at Sherlock, John took a deep breath and said, “Yes?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, intently finding John’s.

“Moriarty is dead.”

“Oh, well.. thank god.”  John blew his breath out, relieved.  He couldn’t envision a future that still held James Moriarty, the threat that would hover over their lives once again.

“But he didn’t kill himself.”

“Wha…?  What do you mean he didn’t kill himself?  You said no one else was up here and I know you didn’t kill him…or _did_ you?”  Now he had seen Sherlock shoot Magnussen, John knew the detective was more capable of violence than he had ever known.  Ironically, he just didn’t think Sherlock would lie to him about it. 

“Yes, he is dead and no, I didn’t kill him, but neither did Moriarty kill himself.  Someone else was up here.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with excitement, his fingers fluttering against each other in a manner only seen in movies with mad scientists.  Or on the hands of this one. 

“We have one more sniper to take down, John.”


	8. Dragunov

**May 2013**

Lying with Mary on the sofa in his flat, John thought one last time about the question forming on his tongue.  Though to most it would seem too soon to ask, nothing had felt so right in a long time.

It only took three weeks for John to feel as if he had known Mary for a lifetime.  Three weeks for him to consider he might want to spend the rest of his life with her. 

After watching Sherlock plunge from the roof of St. Bart’s, for too long John lived in a fog of grief from losing his best friend.  His guilt in failing to prevent Sherlock from jumping to his death the only emotion breaking through the haze and giving him the sense he was still alive.

He still missed Sherlock.  Still missed him with a palpable ache that blessedly faded a little each day.  Still missed the man who made his life more interesting than he ever thought possible.

But then he met Mary. 

John knew one day his world would be righted and he would once again be ready to date; he just didn’t think it would be so soon.  But Mary…bright, funny, attractive, Mary.  She understood him, _got_ him, unlike anyone he had ever met… except for Sherlock.

It was all so _easy_ with her _._

And while there was so much to learn about her, it would come in time.  Based on what he already knew, he felt it unquestionable he would love everything about her.  

It was this that brought him to ask A Very Important Question one Wednesday evening three and a half weeks after she began working at the clinic.  His arms wrapped around her as they lied watching telly.  Kissing the soft hair on the back of her head, John was grateful she wasn’t facing him; it was hard enough as it was.

“How about living here?  With me?  I know it seems sudden, but you stay here most nights anyway and I think it would be nice to have you here all the time.”

There, he said it.

Mary broke his embrace and rolled to face him, her eyes roaming over his features.  Looking into eyes steadily returning her gaze, it didn’t take any thought to give him an answer.

“Yes, but on one condition,” she said, mischievousness crinkling her eyes and tipping up the crook of her mouth.

“And just what do you want, Ms. Morstan?”  John could not resist the impishness that frequently arose from her, warming his heart in a way he had come to believe he would not ever feel again.  He folded her back into his arms, nestling her closer, smiling down at her upturned face.

“I could do without the skull; one dame in the house is enough.”  She jiggled him playfully, certain it shouldn’t be a point of contention.

John stiffened, his smile quickly vanishing.  “No,” he said curtly.

Mary pulled back and seeing an unusual darkness cross her boyfriend’s face, “I’m sorry, love; I didn’t know it was so important to you.  It belonged to your friend, didn’t it.  Sherlock, I think you said?”  Mary pecked him on the lips, seeking forgiveness for her gaffe. 

“Yes, it belongs, belonged to… Sherlock,” John replied, embarrassed he still stumbled over his former flatmate’s name, relieved it happened less and less often.  “It’s the only thing belonging to him that I took from the flat. Sorry to be so touchy.”  Forcing a smile back on his face, he brought himself back to the question at hand.

“So what do you think?  Will you move in with me?” 

“Yes.  Unconditionally, yes.  Oh, and by the way, I love you, Dr. Watson.”

“I love you, too,” John’s eyes softened, grateful for this woman who turned his life around.

The next day they moved Mary’s few belongings from her rented room by the hospital to John’s flat.  

 

**Present Day**

Mycroft sat at the back corner table with DI Lestrade and Minister of Communications, Herman Cotswald. He preferred dining at the Diogenes Club, but unfortunately it proved difficult to reschedule the fumigation already in process.  As the club’s alternative he chose a restaurant known for guests who desired as much privacy as the three of them; they would be left alone.  Agents doubling as waiters discreetly watched the room for possible security threats.  
  
Greg, momentarily distracted by the exorbitant prices on the menu, looked back up at his dining partners.  Listening to their conversation, he kept pace for the most part, slipping behind only when they discussed the more technical aspects of the national communication infrastructure.  
  
Directing his questions to Mycroft, Greg asked, "So tell me this, do you see a connection between the prison break and this 'Moriarty' stunt? I don’t know, I can't see John Watson being mixed up with Moriarty; as far as I know the two were what you would call mortal enemies. And by the way, have you figured out who this Scott McGuire is?"  Greg clasped his hands on the table, uncomfortably aware that at this point he had far more questions than answers.  
  
Mycroft deflected the questions.  "What might be your theories of how the events could be connected, Gregory? I’m interested to hear."  Even with a history rich in subverting the law, Mycroft felt uneasy discussing the prison break; his involvement, if discovered, would be severely frowned upon.  It was one thing to break the law on behalf of the government; it was entirely another to do it for the benefit of his brother.  
  
Thoughtfully, Greg said, "Maybe Moriarty didn’t die after all and when he heard Sherlock came out of hiding, he devised one of those sick games he seems to be so fond of.  Ahh hell, what do I know?" He clearly felt out of his depth with his theory.

“An an interesting thought, Gregory.  I know we need to examine all possibilities, but I would like to proceed one step at a time. How do you perceive the depth of difficulty in the hacking, Herman?  Putting aside motive for the moment, how much expertise would one need to air a single message on every monitor in Britain simultaneously? ”

Minister Cotswald, a reserved man in his late 60’s, had been a public servant for more than two-thirds of his life.  His sharp intellect and knack for nimbly navigating government politics earned him the reputation as someone who could take care of problems efficiently without creating rancor.  With these characteristics he landed the relatively stress-free office he now held and fully intended to occupy until the day he retired. 

“Whilst, technically, all communications systems interconnect, it is a matter of degree to which they are connected.  Though it would take, say, 90 separate hubs for a computer monitor in Westminster to reach a CCTV in Blackpool, it could be done.  The manpower to do so would reach far beyond the capability of one person and would, I assume, take months to chart the links.  No master ‘map’, if you will, of the infrastructure exists.  Whoever assembled it will have had to access any number of databases to compile the information.   Then to execute the transmission, well… it truly is unfathomable how much coordination it took.  Now accomplished, the bigger question is how to prevent a breach from happening again.   However nefarious the motive might be, it mustn’t happen again.”

Still listening to Herman, Mycroft picked up his napkin and dabbing it at his mouth, looked around the room.  As he hoped, his meeting brought no untoward attention; pairs and small groups of diners chatted amongst themselves, the trio of men in the corner going unnoticed.  Unnoticed saved for one set of eyes looking directly at him.

Dr. Watson's wife.   Mycroft saw her immediate spark of recognition as Mary’s gaze settled on him for the briefest of moments. 

It would not normally matter to him whom Mrs. Watson associated with, but more than he would care to admit it did affect him.  Whatever troubled John Watson would trouble Sherlock, and therefor himself.  But more than the fact that Mrs. Watson was holding the hand of a man not her husband, he was deeply concerned by _to whom the hand belonged._

Snapping his fingers, Mycroft called a waiter over.  The waiter leaned down as Mycroft spoke into his ear, then swiftly disappeared into the kitchen to gather his street clothes and a small leather case, exiting the restaurant through the back entrance.    


* * *

  
  
‘Oh dear Christ.’

Mary swore as her eyes locked briefly with Mycroft’s.  It didn’t occur to her she would see anyone she knew at the restaurant; she didn’t run in society circles.  As coolly as she could, her eyes continued moving past Mycroft as if his was just another face in the crowd. Squeezing the hand she still held, she whispered across the table, “I’m so sorry, love, I’m not feeling well.  Do you mind if we go?”  For added effect she smoothed her maternity blouse across her stomach and grimaced as if a sudden pain hit her.

 “Of course!  Do you want me to call someone?  Your doctor?”  The man sitting across from her became alarmed at her distress. 

“No, no,” she reassured him. “Just let me go home and rest; I’ll be better soon.”  The last thing Mary wanted was to call attention to herself.  Mycroft no doubt recognized her, but it would do no good to give him cause to come to their table.  The more distance she put between her and Sherlock’s brother, the better.  
  
Mary picked up her bag from the chair beside her and headed to the exit, leaving her companion to quickly toss a few notes on the table before rushing after her.

Just before they reached the door, the pain Mary moments ago pretended she had suddenly coursed through her, all too real this time.  Gasping, one hand flew to her belly, the other grabbing blindly for the man next to her as she struggled to stay upright. 

Barely able to breathe, her words strangled at the back of her throat, “Get me to hospital…” Falling awkwardly to her knees, an arm around her waist trying to ease the way, she managed to force out, “John.  Call John.”

Yelling at the maître d’ to call an ambulance, Mary’s companion dug through her bag for her mobile.  He didn’t know who John was, but he was sure to find him in her contacts.

* * *

  


Standing atop St. Bart’s, the unchecked delight in Sherlock’s voice was at odds with his words as he told John an unidentified sniper had killed Moriarty.

“Another sniper?” 

Confused, John said, “I thought you said you accounted for all of them? You barely told me any of what happened whilst you were gone, but you did just say you ‘eliminated’ them.” 

A chill ran through John.  He couldn’t imagine what Sherlock endured those two long years he stayed away from all places and people familiar to him, committing unspeakable acts.  He didn’t understand how Sherlock could be so excited to have James Moriarty once again disrupt his life.  Sherlock should be happy to be done with it all.

“Yes, John, Moriarty’s web died just as he did.  But this, _this_ sniper bested him!  This sniper beat him at his own game; he couldn’t even commit suicide without this person getting in a shot first.  A rogue sniper, or perhaps the hired hand of someone who wanted Moriarty eliminated.  You knew Moriarty as well as I did.  He made it his business to ‘rattle the bars’ as it were, the ultimate unwanted guest, insinuating himself wherever he pleased.”  
  
Sherlock paced, pushing aside his glee as he scanned the neighboring rooftops and windows for a suitable line of sight.  He stepped a few paces one way and then another as he calculated the angle the sniper would have had to fire from to hit Moriarty on his left side.  Sherlock moved back and forth, crouching, standing, until finally he clapped his hands together triumphantly.

Spinning on his heel to face John, he directed John’s attention to the roof across the street. 

“The sniper stood _there_ , on that building, about 3 ½ metres from the North edge.  Moriarty and I didn’t expect anyone else to be present.  He wore clothing to camouflage himself against the roof tile, almost impossible to see even if we knew what we were looking for.”

Sherlock sobered.  “It never made sense to me that Moriarty was the mastermind of his own organization.  Yes, he was cunning and obviously devoid of any moral character, but I don’t see him having the necessary skills to amass that kind of criminal network on his own.  I would not be surprised if he got in the bad graces of his handler, who ordered a hit on him.

We need to find out who it was.  And just as importantly, why.  I have little doubt the person _behind_ Moriarty is still out there and may well be the one who hacked the system this morning.”  


Turning, Sherlock hurried to the roof access.  ‘Who is it?  Who _is_ it?’ he muttered under his breath, knowing he wouldn’t be able to rest until he revealed and removed the threat of the nameless sniper. He feared that with any piece of Moriarty’s web still present John’s life would be in danger.  A situation always intolerable to him, but now unthinkable.   
  
“Hey, wait.”  John tried to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides, but wearing shoes too tight to walk in comfortably, he soon fell behind.   
  
Sherlock came to a halt and turned, looking at John. "This isn't going to work; I don’t want you to come with me," he bluntly told the smaller man.   
  
“What do you mean it isn't going to work?!  I've joined you on more cases than I can count, and you’re not going to leave me out now.”

The hurt John felt at Sherlock’s statement surprised him.  Sherlock's friendship was the only stable thing in his life since he discovered Mary’s past and he hadn't realized how much he relied on it.  Standing as tall as he could, he did his best to look dignified in Mrs. Holmes’ clothes.  He was going to follow Sherlock across the street and investigate the damn roof along with him.  It was what he did.  It was who he was.

“Don't be an idiot. The problem is not you; the clothes don’t allow you the mobility you need.  It’s going to be dangerous accessing that roof, John.  I will not be held responsible for you getting hurt.”

Looking away, Sherlock couldn’t help from adding silently, ‘I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.’ 

John’s mouth formed a small ‘O’, unsure why he jumped to the conclusion Sherlock didn’t want him along.  “Well… if that’s all you’re on about.  Let me go see Molly down in the morgue and roust some proper clothes from her; surely there’s something lying around.”

Sherlock looked at him uncertainly; he couldn’t deny he valued John’s assistance.   To change out of the disguise put John at risk, but the possibility of encountering anyone in the short distance they needed to go was slim. 

“Come along, then.  We haven’t time to waste.”

* * *

  


Twenty minutes later Sherlock and John stood on their second roof that day.   Unlike St. Bart’s, the roof angled steeply, but the eaves along the bottom of its slope provided a path wide enough to walk safely as long as they watched their step.

“I hate to point out the obvious, Sherlock, but it's been almost 3 years; what do you think you can possibly find?”  
  
“With Moriarty’s death not under suspicion of murder, the likelihood of anyone coming up here in that time is almost non-existent.  Whatever the sniper left behind should still be around.

Moving catlike along the roof’s edge, Sherlock crouched several times to pick up and examine small items that caught his eye.  Considering each item one by one, he determined them worthless, merely pieces of debris that managed to find themselves in an unlikely spot.

Reaching down again, he picked an object up out of a clump of wet leaves.  Wiping it clean, he stood up and inspected it; the familiar enthusiasm of an intriguing discovery telling John the detective found something of significance.

“This cartridge is most commonly used in a Dragunov, a sniper rifle developed in the Soviet Union and still used by the Russians.  And you thought we wouldn’t find anything.” 

Holding it by its ends, Sherlock recalled the information on Mary’s memory stick, pondering the implications of the chosen weapon with dread. 

“Russian?  Why would Moriarty interest the Russians?”

Not willing to reveal what he knew about his friend’s wife, Sherlock pocketed the cartridge, satisfied they had all they needed from the roof.

“It’s time to get back to the cottage, John; I need to do some research.”  Taking one last look across to St. Bart’s roof, Sherlock followed John as they carefully navigated their way back to even footing. 

* * *

 

“Here you go, Molly.”  John handed her the bag of clothes he borrowed. 

Molly’s eyes sparkled, she couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. 

“Do tell me where you got that dress; I must have one.  I’m going on a date Saturday night, and I want to look my very best.”

“Hardy har har.  You put her up to that, didn’t you, Sherlock.” 

Bringing his palms to show he had nothing to hide, Sherlock put on his best ‘Don’t look at me’ face. 

“Let’s go John; I want to leave the city before the heavy traffic hits.”

“Just a minute, let me call Mary; I want to make sure she got to Brighton all right.”

John moved to the side of the room and keyed in Mary’s number; he had never figured out how to work the ‘favorites’ feature.  Touching the last number and waiting for the other end to ring, his eyes followed as an attendant wheeled a sheet-covered corpse into the morgue.

Between the poor reception in the hospital basement and the spotty reception Mary said her destination would have, it took several moments for the call to connect.  He nodded at the attendant as he walked by.  Finally hearing a ring on the other end, then a second, it dawned on him he heard a familiar sound nearby.  His heart stopped… Mary’s ringtone.  A ringtone unlike anyone’s but his own, for it was the waltz Sherlock wrote for their wedding. 

Coming from the gurney that just passed him.

His arm fell to his side, the mobile clattering to the floor as his hand lost its grip on it.

Panicking, his eyes flew to Sherlock who stared back at him, just as stunned.

Tearing his eyes away, John rushed to the gurney to pull back the sheet, unprepared for what he might find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, this story is a challenge to write. Thank you for following along and making the effort worthwhile!  
> I know I give my thanks to Burning_Up_a_Sun in the story end notes, but truly, her help and support is invaluable, (Thank you, honey!) You should go read the story she's working on, it's wonderful! 'You Teach Me and I'll Teach You'


	9. The Corpse

Everything around him melting away, John’s  breathing became ragged as he stopped short of pulling the sheet off the body.  Mary…the baby.

“It’s not Mary, John.”

“Wha..?”  John stared at the sheet, barely hearing Sherlock. 

“It’s not Mary.  _Look._  Once again you see but you do not observe.”  Sherlock stepped next to John and pointed at the motionless form, directing the doctor’s eyes to the middle of the body.  “Does that look like a woman who is about to give birth within the month?”

“Jesus.” John exhaled heavily, his heart still pounding despite the implication of what he did _not_ see, now clear. 

“It’s not uncommon in moments of extreme distress to block out even the most significant of details.  I once met a man who walked away from a car crash who, even after looking at the mangled car still did not realize…”

John interrupted the detective, “But, who is it then?  And why do they have Mary’s mobile?  She’s should be in Brighton by now and she wouldn’t leave it behind.”

“Let me see the name.”  Molly retrieved a clipboard from the end of the gurney.   “The body hasn’t been identified; the record just says ‘John Doe’.”  Flipping the sheets of paper on the chart, “Three hours ago he arrived at Royal London Hospital, DOA.  They transported him here for me to perform the autopsy.

She paused, her face pinched as she wondered out loud why the body occupied space in her morgue.  “This is odd, how quickly they brought him here.  It usually takes at least 24 hours before they release a body.  Especially if it’s a John Doe they want to wait for a family to claim them.”

Pulling the sheet off the body, Molly revealed a Caucasian male, approximately forty years old.  Multiple scars lightened by age, a broad nose, and a full head of wavy hair were of minor importance compared to the startling hole neatly centered in the middle of his forehead.   The wound, uncovered, had already been meticulously cleaned of blood and brain matter

“I’ll do a full autopsy, but I believe it’s fairly safe to say he died of that gunshot wound.”  Pulling the sheet down further, she dug into a pocket and pulled out a mobile, showing it to John. 

“Is this Mary’s?”

“It looks like it, but to be honest they pretty much all look the same to me.”    Taking it from Molly, John pressed a button and stared at his own face on the screen beside Mary’s smiling one; it was a photo from their wedding day.  He frowned at it, helplessly wondering how the mobile wound up in the man’s pocket.

Sherlock took the device from John’s hand, immediately pressing buttons.

“What are you doing?”  John asked, looking at Sherlock’s intent expression.

“Looking to see who the last calls were to and from, obviously.”

Sherlock’s fingers flew over the keyboard, pausing every few seconds as he reviewed the call history. 

“The last call out was to you, presumably when she told you she was leaving for Brighton.  The call previous to that one was to a London area code, but no contact is attached to it.  Do you recognize the number?”

John peered at the screen and shook his head.  “No, it’s not familiar, but then who in the hell remembers telephone numbers?  Wait.  Call Janine.  Ask if Mary is with her.”

Sherlock nodded his head approvingly at John’s suggestion.  Searching Mary’s contacts for Janine’s number, it puzzled him when he couldn’t find it.   How odd that a friend close enough to serve as a bridesmaid was not in her contact list.  Pulling out his own mobile, he called his former ‘intended’.  He hadn’t seen Janine since she visited him at the hospital, but she occasionally called to tell him how much she enjoyed her new bungalow.

“Janine, Sherlock…Yes, of course, you know it is me….So happy to hear you are well and reaping the benefits of reducing me to tabloid fodder… I didn’t call to chat.  Is Mary with you?...  Mary Watson, of course…I see…No, still waiting to get married, but thank you for the offer; I’ll keep it in mind…Yes, goodbye.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes as he disconnected the call.

John looked stricken. Evident from Sherlock’s side of the conversation, Mary was not with Janine and he had no reason to believe she had been.  Where _was_ she?  He had no way of calling her, no way to find out.  He met Sherlock’s eyes, trusting his friend would know where to start.

* * *

 

 Just once would have been nice.

Sitting in the lounge chair on the veranda of her bungalow, gazing out at the waves lapping on the beach below, the warm breeze ruffled Janine’s hair, cooled the sheen of sweat on her skin.  Closing her eyes, she sought out and found the damp slit between her thighs, firmly massaging her clit with two middle fingers.  God that man was gorgeous.  What she wouldn’t have given to wrap her fingers in those curls and give them a good tug, watch those luscious lips part in surprise. 

It really was too bad he had to die.

* * *

 

**6 Hours Earlier**

Disconnecting the call, Leonid stared out the window.  Not at anything in particular for his mind raced, his brief conversation too momentous to allow him to stay calm.

She told him she answers to the American name Mary, now.  It would take time to grow accustomed to it, but a minor concession if it meant there was a possibility once again to have her in his life. 

Three years.  Three years since he last laid eyes on her.  Alexis…no, Mary, his lover for almost five years, broke off their relationship saying she needed to leave behind the life she had lived for so long.  Needed to remove herself from everything and everyone she was associated.

Her explanation that she fell in love with one of her marks somehow didn’t ring true, but no matter how much he argued that they were meant to be together, she stood firm in her resolve.  One day she simply didn’t come home and he hadn’t seen her since.

Until now. 

‘Would he join her for lunch,’ she asked; she wanted to talk with him about something ‘important’.  How could he deny her?   Perhaps true love prevailed. Perhaps she changed her mind and decided a life without him wasn’t what she wanted after all.  He never quite got over her; maybe it was the same for Mary. 

Leonid tore through his closet, choosing his clothing carefully; even if reconciliation were not Mary’s intent, he wanted her to regret the day she left him.  The decision made, he dressed, adding a hat and darkened glasses to obscure his face.  Though unlikely, it wouldn’t do to go out in public without at least some protection against being recognized; he knew there were still those out there who preferred him dead.

In the cab on the way to the restaurant, Leonid’s anticipation grew; he felt more and more certain Mary desired to reunite.  Her new life must not have suited her, after all, since a young girl the only life she ever knew was one of intrigue.  To walk amongst the ‘ordinary’ could not have been an easy thing.

Led to the table where Mary sat, Leonid was not prepared for the jolt he felt at seeing her again after so long a time.  If anything, she was more beautiful than he remembered.  When she stood to greet him, he couldn’t help but gape at her protruding stomach.  Pregnant.  He wasn’t quick enough to hide his dismay, but whether she didn’t notice or ignored it, he didn’t know. 

By the looks of it the baby would come very soon.  A surge of jealousy swiftly coursed through him. Whose baby was it?  It had been a point of contention between them that she refused to have a baby; she said their life was not a suitable one in which to raise a child.  He stuffed his anger down; now was not the time to allow old wounds to surface.

* * *

 

At Mary’s desperate request he call ‘John’, Leonid scrambled through her bag for her mobile; it was difficult to search for it while he tried to comfort her.  Finally grabbing ahold of it he shoved it into his pocket, freeing his hand to reach for the cool, wet towel a waiter brought him; the call he needed make quickly dropped from his mind.  ‘Chyort voz’mi!’ (shit!).  He should never have let her leave him, no matter what she said.  He should have spent his days trying to find her, not drowning himself in alcohol. 

He hovered nearby as the arriving medics picked her up and set her gently onto the gurney, rolling it to the awaiting ambulance after checking her vital signs.  Her arm stretched out to Leonid, beseeching him to stay with her.  He hesitated, unsure what to do.  He wasn’t her husband, he wasn’t her…anything.  Would it somehow complicate her life if he arrived at hospital with her?  Would the baby’s father be summoned, waiting for her?

“Are you her husband?”  The medic asked, impatient to leave.  “Are you coming with?”

Leonid’s hesitation, lasting barely a few seconds, left him standing on the pavement long enough to cost him his life.

The bullet came from seemingly nowhere, ripping through his brain, allowing his blood to flow out freely.  He died before the medic even realized he’d fallen.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s mobile rang.

“Is John with you?”

“You know very well the answer to that question, Mycroft.  I have little doubt your CCTVs are trained on me night and day.  How you get any work done I have no idea.”

“Must you be so tiresome?  Step away from him, will you; I wish to speak with you privately.”

Sherlock nodded at John, silently telling him to stay.  Begrudgingly, the detective moved into the empty corridor, where he could still see John and Molly through the window.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“The man in the morgue, the John Doe. Does he look familiar to you?”

As closely as he could from where he stood, Sherlock looked at the face on the gurney.

“No.  Who is he?”

“His name is Leonid Shikov, a Russian spy I recognized from when I infiltrated the Serbian prison in which you were held.  From the intelligence I collected, his orders instructed him to, and I quote, ‘capture and neutralize Sherlock Holmes’.  Once we extracted you and you…’resurrected’ yourself here in London, he followed, staying underground all this time.  Why, I don’t know.  Today, when I was dining with your Lestrade and the Communications Minister, he sat at a nearby table.”

Sherlock processed this information.  “Why would he come out of hiding after all this time? Who was he with?” Adding drily, “I assume it would be safe to say you had a part in his visit to the morgue.

“You may _assume_ whatever you wish.  As to who he was with… it _is_ a bit awkward…he shared a table with Dr. Watson’s wife.”

“Mary?!  Why would he be with Mary?” Sherlock’s voice carried through the hallway, his astonishment causing him to forget the hushed tone he used.

Sherlock saw John turn around at the sound of his wife’s name, his lips parting, his brow furrowing as he questioned why Mary would come up in Sherlock’s conversation.  Sherlock shook his head at John, then turned his back and lowered his voice.

“Mary is in London?  She was to have gone to Brighton, but we now know she didn’t make it.  What was she doing with Shikov?”

“I don’t know Sherlock, I wasn’t invited over for a cup of tea,” Mycroft replied derisively.  “All I know is they appeared to be….very good friends.” 

“What do you mean, ‘very good friends’?”

“They were acting as if lovers, holding hands, smiling at each other in that way people in love do.”  Mycroft shivered in distaste at the memory.  He never understood why people became so ‘googly-eyed’ over another human being. 

“Where is Mary now?  Was she targeted as well?”  It troubled Sherlock to contemplate the possibility of Mary’s death.  As much as he despised her deceptions and the inherent danger she put John in just by her mere proximity to him, he had no wish to see her dead.  If only for John’s sake.

“Mary is at Royal London Hospital.”  Hearing Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath, Mycroft quickly added, “She is quite alive, brother.  Shame on you for even thinking I could involve myself with the purposeful death of a woman so far advanced in pregnancy.  No, she suffered a minor complication whilst at the restaurant, but I understand she and her baby are fine.”

Sherlock heard a movement beside him.  John.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” 

Pursing his lips and looking down at his mobile to buy him time, Sherlock canceled the call though he could still hear his brother’s voice, mid-sentence.  Looking at John, seeing the worried face of the smaller man as he looked at him expectantly, Sherlock didn’t know what to say.  He had nothing to tell John that would make him feel better. 

“Well?  That was Mycroft, wasn’t it?  How in the bloody hell is he involved this time?!”  John’s face lost whatever emotion lay there, replaced with a stoniness Sherlock found disturbing.

“John…”

“Don’t _John_ me.  What the hell is going on Sherlock?  Where is Mary?”

One hand fiddling with his mobile, Sherlock put his other hand in his pocket.  His fingers wandered, looking for nothing in particular, until they found another object with which to fidget…the shell from the rooftop.  A shell from a Russian sniper rifle.

“She’s in Royal London Hospital.”

“ _Hospital_!  And just how would Mycroft know this?”

“He happened upon her in the restaurant in which he was dining; he saw her taken away by ambulance.  But he said she’s fine, John.  It was minor, both she and the baby are well.”  The last words rushed out of Sherlock.  Perhaps John would not look beyond those facts to the next obvious question.

Sherlock was not so fortunate. 

“They’re fine.  Good.”  John took his eyes off Sherlock, relieved his wife was well and safe.  Safe…  Why did she say was off to Brighton whilst she stayed in London?  Why did she go to such a posh restaurant?  They never went there.  They couldn’t afford it even if they wanted to.  Did she go by herself?  If not, who….

“Who was she with, Sherlock?”  John looked back at Sherlock who got the distinct feeling he was being accused of something.

“What do you mean ‘who was she with’?”

Sherlock, never adept at playing stupid, did not deter John with his apparent confusion.

“You know what I mean.  _Who_  was she eating with?”

Distracted by his internal debate whether or not John could press his lips more tightly together…they really did look as if they disappeared… Sherlock did not answer quickly enough.

“ _Who_ , Sherlock?” 

Sherlock nodded to inside the morgue.

“Molly?  Why would she have gone with Molly?”  John was genuinely confused now.  Molly stood right there whilst they talked about Mary not going to Brighton and didn’t say a word about it.

“No, John.  The gentleman on the table.” 

“The dead bloke.”

“Yes.”

So softly Sherlock barely heard him, John asked, “And just who is _he_?”

“His name is, was, Leonid Shikov.  He was a Russian National assigned to kill me.  Mycroft doesn’t know anything about his meeting with Mary other than it lasted about 15 minutes before Mary was rushed to hospital.  Leonid was killed on the pavement outside the restaurant.”

John’s mind reeled. 

“So let me get this straight.  Mary lied about going to Brighton, instead she met up with a Russian spy.  A man Mycroft knows, a man you know…”

“Well, I never met him…,” Sherlock interjected.

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut as John glared at him.

 “A man who wants to _kill_ you.  A man Mary somehow knows.  A man I _don’t_ know.  And now he’s been shot to death.  Have I about got it right?”

Cautiously, Sherlock answered, “Yes.”

John stared at the body on the table, putting what little he knew in some semblance of order.  Watched as Molly put her gloves on, took an instrument from her tray and started to inspect the wound. 

Turning back to Sherlock, in a low voice that brooked no argument, John said, “I’m going to my flat to get out of these _fucking_ clothes and then I’m going to visit Mary.”

“I wouldn’t advise that John, the police are more than likely keeping an eye on her…”

“You are free to come with me or not, Sherlock.  Right now I don’t give a flying arse about the fucking police.  I need to find out what Mary is involved in.   I need to make sure my baby is all right.”  With that, John quickly headed to the closest exit, leaving Sherlock to watch after him.

* * *

 

As angry as John felt, he knew Sherlock was not at fault for any of this.  As his friend once so bluntly pointed out, John _chose_ Mary.  But still…he thought with the baby on the way Mary decided to once and for all put her past behind her.  It appeared he was wrong.  Very wrong. 

He didn’t hurry as he washed up in the loo at their flat.  He needed to calm himself before he saw his wife, and splashing the cool water on his face helped clear his mind. 

Rummaging through his sock drawer to find a matching pair, he felt a piece of paper at the bottom.  Pulling the wad of socks out and setting it on the bureau, he discovered four envelopes, all addressed to Mary.  Puzzled, he inspected their contents.  Opening them one by one, it baffled him further to see each contained only one piece of paper.  Each with a single word apiece.  They appeared to be names, but he couldn’t be sure.

John walked out to the sitting room where Sherlock sat quietly waiting for him, occupying himself by texting.

Sherlock stopped, looking up at the envelopes held out to him.  Taking them, he looked at what each one held.  His face carefully blank, he handed them back.  

By the very fact that Sherlock said nothing, John felt an uneasiness grow in him, disrupting the calm he just worked so hard for.  Sherlock had an opinion about _everything_ ; this could be no different.  Why did Sherlock say nothing?

John looked down at them and riffling them nervously, said, “What are these Sherlock?  Whose names are these?  These _are_ names, aren’t they?”

“You already know, John.”

John held Sherlock’s steady gaze, trying to read his friend’s thoughts; Sherlock seemed so certain the doctor knew what the words meant.

With a small jerk of his head, John barked out an ironic laugh. 

“I chose her, huh?” 

Sherlock’s chest felt hollow, as if the air in his lungs went to live somewhere else.   He couldn’t bear to see the sudden look of defeat on the face he cared so much about.  John did not deserve to be in this position.  Yes, he chose Mary, but without all the facts.  If Sherlock had been there when the two met, before they fell in love, he could have prevented the profound hurt John now experienced.  Experienced because he suddenly recognized the full truth of his wife’s duplicity.

As gently as he could, Sherlock responded to the question that required no answer. “Yes, you did.”


	10. Finished

****

Sherlock parked 3 blocks from the hospital, telling John to stay in the vehicle whilst he found out if it was possible for John to go inside undetected.

“I’m going with you, Sherlock.  I haven’t the patience to sit here and do nothing.”

Sherlock didn’t like the look in John’s eyes.  Even with darkness settling in on the night, he could see the barely suppressed rage that had built since John found out about Mary’s acquaintance. 

“You may not have the patience, but you will do it anyway.  If there are police anywhere in that building, you will not be safe.  Even if you have to wait to talk to her, it is better than being arrested; then you will have no choice in the matter.  Stay here, I’ll be back soon.”

Sherlock paused, not knowing how to reassure him. 

“You’ll be alright John.  Soon you and Mary will be home.  Your baby will be here and you will put this behind you.”

“Home.  Right.”  John scoffed bitterly.  “I’m a wanted felon, or don’t you remember.  Besides, it hasn’t been much of a home since Mary shot you.”

“We’ll get it sorted, John.  You’re not going back to prison.”

“Someone has to.” John tried to wrap his head around reality.  If he didn’t go back to Wandsworth then Sherlock would.  He couldn’t face the possibility of either outcome; the thought made him want to wretch.  The thought of going back to prison and not being able to hold his child.  The thought of Sherlock in prison. No, there had to be another way.  But what it could be, he had no idea.

“Yes, John, someone has to.”  Sherlock spoke slowly and clearly, needing to ensure John understood him.  “It will be me.  I killed Magnussen, and as…noble as your gesture was, I cannot let you go back to prison for a crime you did not commit.” 

Overwhelmed, Sherlock thought about how John had been willing to give up everything important to him to protect his friend.  How did one acknowledge that?  How did one _repay_ that?  He knew he never could.  All he knew was his need to keep John safe from the killer still out there.  Once he identified and neutralized Moriarty’s killer, John would be safe, and he would turn himself in.

“You will go home, John, and I will take my rightful place in prison for shooting Magnussen.  It’s as it should be.”

John looked at Sherlock, seeing the quiet certitude on the detective’s face.  Christ, how did this get to be such a mess? He should never have let Sherlock talk him into leaving the prison.  Hell, he should never have let Sherlock go to Appledor in the first place…like he’d had any choice; it wasn’t as if Sherlock ever listened to him.  But he couldn’t argue with Sherlock’s logic.  He had been delusional to think he would ever get away with taking the blame for Magnussen’s death.

Resigned to an outcome that would have lasting repercussions, John said, “So what are you going to do then?”  Were he not so angry, he would have realized his heart was breaking.  Was it only a few months ago he told Sherlock he wanted the two people he loved most in the world to be standing by him as he got married?  Soon he would have no one standing by him.   Mary, the woman he could no longer afford to love would likely be just an adjunct to his life, the mother of his child, not his wife.  And Sherlock, the best friend he ever had, would be in prison. 

Sherlock hesitantly reached out and put his hand on John’s shoulder, the pain he saw on his friend’s face cutting through him. Giving John’s shoulder an awkward pat, he responded to the question of what he would do.  “Right now I’m going to check out the hospital.  And after that, I’ll figure it out.  The important thing at this moment is to make sure you stay out of prison.”

Sherlock got out of the Land Rover, leaving the keys with John in case he needed to make an escape.

“Be safe, Sherlock,” John said to his friend, loathing the necessity to stay behind and do nothing.

Sherlock gave a sharp, answering nod, shut the door, and walked away.

John watched Sherlock retreat.  Watched the tall, dark figure get smaller, less distinguishable in the fading light.  If he weren’t so disheartened, he would have smiled when he saw the detective turn his coat collar up against the cool, evening breeze.

* * *

 

It took nearly twenty minutes for Sherlock to come back to the Land Rover.  Twenty minutes that felt like twenty hours while John sat thinking about his wife’s lies.  Twenty minutes to realize, no matter her explanation, he could no longer stay married to her. 

He now knew with total clarity he could not continue living with a woman who lived another life behind his back.  A woman whose past he knew nothing about.  A woman he could not trust and could no longer identify any love for anywhere inside himself.  He had been willing to stay in a loveless marriage for his daughter’s sake; he had seen too many broken homes, the emotional damage they inflicted upon the children.  But with Mary continuing to involve herself with assassins, that was just…too much.

No, he was done.  They would divorce.  But not before ensuring he had fair access to his daughter, or better yet, custody. 

He crossed his arms and settled back into the seat, shutting his eyes to close out the world around him.  He did not want even the smallest part of it right now. 

Hearing the key in the door, John opened his eyes.  Sherlock’s face, illuminated by the interior light, gave nothing away.

* * *

 

Sanjay huddled at the far end of the darkened flat, facing the drawn curtains and the door he feared that someone would break through at any moment.  Broken through by someone who had no right to be in his home.  He sat there too afraid to do anything but contemplate the evil act he unknowingly took part in, wondering if someone would come to take him away.  Or worse yet, hurt him. 

Just two years out of University, he did well for himself.  Living in a comfortable part of the city, he felt he was much further ahead than he dreamed he would be at this point in his life.  After graduating the Indian Institute of Technology Bombay, he quickly secured a position at a major corporation in London, his pay far exceeding that of any of his classmates.  Known for his superior programming skills, he earned the unofficial title ‘Boy Wonder’.  While he found the nickname patronizing, he couldn’t regret the status it earned him in the technological world.

Two months earlier, a beautiful, well-dressed woman identifying herself as government official procured his services for a ‘confidential project’.  Proud that his reputation landed him such a prestigious side job, he worked late into the nights and most weekend hours linking major internet connections traversing all of England.  Strongly hinted at by the official, when finished the network would be the model for the rest the globe and make him an international star in his field.   She also alluded to a special announcement that was to be made.

He finished the project a week early, eagerly anticipating the day the system would go on line.  World renown would be within his grasp.

But instead of fame and glory Sanjay found he had unwittingly participated in the reappearance of James Moriarty.  Even in his home country, the citizens were well aware of the consulting criminal; a loud cheer resonated across the vast land upon news of his ‘death.’

And now he had just given the mastermind the ultimate forum to rain his own particular brand of terror on the world once again.

Sanjay sat in the dark, wondering when he would ever feel safe again.

Christ, what had he done?! 

* * *

 

Sherlock seated himself behind the vehicle wheel and closed the door, shutting off the overhead light. 

“It’s not safe for you to go in; a security guard is stationed outside Mary’s door.  I was able to ascertain it is protective in nature due to the unfortunate incident she was involved in with Shikov.  Since she was the one last seen with him, they are going to keep her under guard until they know for certain she is not…”   This was the difficult part, “…a target as well.”

“Jesus!  A target?!  What the fucking Christ has she gotten herself into?!”

In the dim light, Sherlock watched John’s face contort with rage.  With fear. With confusion.  And in the next moment, it all dropped away, replaced by a weariness that seemed to suck the life out of John’s body, leaving a well of emptiness.

John turned to the window, staring through it, the deflection of the smooth surface accentuating the flatness in his voice. 

“Doesn’t she care about our child, Sherlock?  Whatever she wants to involve herself in, at this point I’m not sure I care.  But the baby… doesn’t she matter to Mary?  I can’t take it anymore.”  He shook his head slowly, feeling as if something in him died.

The ride back to the cottage was preternaturally quiet.  John watched the vehicles and buildings they passed, absorbed in his own world.   Sherlock kept a wary eye out for police, careful to avoid making any traffic errors; it would not do to be stopped. 

He looked over at John frequently, wishing there were something he could do to ease his discomfort.  But how did one go about easing the pain of a fractured marriage?  Sherlock did not know where to begin.  Despite his limited knowledge of human nature he recognized John’s code of loyalty.  He saw it in their own friendship; even with the pain Sherlock caused John at the time of his ‘death’, John eventually forgave him and allowed their relationship to mend.   Would it not be the same with Mary?  If John could forgive someone who was only a friend, could he not forgive the woman to whom he pledged his life?  Sherlock had no answer.  It was not his place to make judgment on what went on between a husband and his wife. 

As the miles sped by, and the silence between them grew louder, Sherlock wanted, _needed_ , to rest his hand on John’s leg.  He needed to comfort himself with a physical connection.  Needed to reassure his friend he wasn’t alone.  But he couldn’t bring himself to do it; it was not his right.  Instead, he placed his hand on the console between them, settling with being a little bit closer to the man he could not imagine living without ever again.

* * *

 

They pulled into the drive behind the cottage, both men silently cursing the presence of the familiar black sedan they parked next to. 

John barely waited until the Land Rover came to a full stop before he jumped out.  Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets he strode to the door, taking a deep breath before entering.  He nodded briefly to Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft where they sat at the kitchen table, heading straight to his room where the solitude beaconed him.

As Sherlock quickly passed his brother and mother on his way to his own room, Mycroft offered a snide “Trouble in paradise?”  The withering look Sherlock threw his way would have made a weaker man wilt.

“Sherlock.”

Mycroft’s sharp tone gave Sherlock pause.  Nothing was more important right at that moment than getting to his room so he could be alone to think, but clearly Mycroft felt whatever he needed to say took precedence.

“Yes?”  Sherlock glared at Mycroft; he was in no mood to spar with his brother.

“Give me your mobile.”  Mycroft held out his hand, silently demanding it be placed in his palm.

“Why?”  Sherlock made no move to hand it over.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already, but it seems the police are putting a trace on it. While the authorities do not suspect you were involved with Dr. Watson’s escape, they are well aware of your close relationship and will be monitoring to see if he contacts you.  May I presume he has not called you?”  His hand didn’t move from where it reached out to his brother.

“You know very well there has been no need; we have been in each other’s company the entire time.”

“The time may come when you are not.  On the side of precaution here is an untraceable mobile.  I have taken the liberty of deactivating your mobiles and entering your primary contacts into these.  Your personal mobile number remains the same.  We do not want to arouse suspicion if there is no contact between you and say, Inspector Lestrade. And here is a matching mobile for Dr. Watson.  It truly is a miracle his location has not already been traced.”

Sherlock begrudgingly pulled his mobile from his pocket and handed it to Mycroft, taking the other two offered to him.  He would get John’s from him later; if it was deactivated there was no rush.

Placing his brother’s mobiles into his briefcase, Mycroft stood up from the table.  Reaching for his umbrella he said, “I must be off.  A minor disturbance arose in the Falkland Islands, and I am to sit in on an early meeting with the Prime Minister.”

Mum walked her elder son to the door, a sigh of exasperation escaping him when she pulled him down to give him a kiss on his cheek.

On his way to his room, Sherlock stopped at John’s door and tapped.  More unsettled by John’s silence during the drive ‘home’ than he would care to admit, he needed to check on the doctor.   Since he met John he had seen him angry more times than he could count.  But never had he seen John so quiet; it unnerved him in a way that little did.

“John?”

No answer came from the other side of the door.

“John?”  Sherlock said the name more firmly.

Having seen Mycroft off, Mum approached Sherlock. “Leave him be, dear. John needs some time to sort it on his own.  From what Mycroft told me he’s had some difficult things to deal with today.”

Sherlock assessed his mum’s concerned face, and taking a moment to think about what she said, turned the doorknob and entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

With the light off, the moon’s glimmer through the open curtains outlined John’s prone form on the bed. The detective lowered himself into the nearby chair.  The same chair he sat in when he realized he loved John.  Was it only that morning?  So much happened since then.  So much more needed to happen before life returned to normal, if it ever would.  The last time he remembered everything feeling right was when John lived with him on Baker Street.  And that seemed an eternity ago.

The voice emerging from the darkness sounded that of a stranger’s, devoid of any feeling.  Devoid of the _life_ Sherlock associated with his friend.

“I’m going to divorce her, Sherlock.  This is supposed to be the happiest time of my life.  I’m a newlywed for Christ’s, and I’m going to be a father in the next few weeks.  Why can’t I care right now?” 

Sherlock struggled for something to say.  As much as he wanted to make everything better for John, he knew there was little he could do.

“She loves you, John.  If she didn’t, would she be with you?”

“Love.  She sure has a funny way of showing it.  But I’m not jealous, Sherlock; that’s not what this is about.  It wouldn’t bother me for her to have lunch with a man, but the _lies_ , the people she brings to our lives.  I can’t live with that. 

“You once said I’m drawn to danger, that’s why I _choose_ psychopaths.  You were wrong Sherlock.  With the proper information this is not a choice I would ever have made.”

John rolled over, his back to Sherlock.  The conversation was over.

* * *

 

Sherlock folded his legs in front of him on his own bed, his chin resting on steepled fingers, Mary’s ‘letters’ and the shell casing spread out before him.  Concentrating, he tried to deduce how, if at all, they bore a connection.  Could it be pure coincidence Mary was Russian by birth and an assassin by trade and before him sat the evidence of a Russian weapon?  That Moriarty’s death occurred approximately the same time she left the ‘business’?  That the data on the memory stick ended just prior to that time frame?

Standing up, he paced back and forth beside the bed, his eyes still locked on the five items lying there.  No one rid themselves of everything connected to them.  Not even a woman shedding her old life and starting a new one.  The memory stick was evidence of that.

He needed more information.  And he knew just where he might find it.

* * *

 

Sherlock switched the light on in the empty flat.  Never entering it before accompanying John there earlier in the evening, he found it difficult to think of as John’s home.  Without ever seeing it, it somehow failed to exist.  Sherlock knew as irrational as it sounded, in his mind Baker Street continued to be John’s home.

Taking in the tidy surroundings, he decided the best place to start was in the bedroom.  Mary would have few places to hide any links to her past, or her present extra-curricular activities for that matter, but he would not make the mistake of underestimating her ability to ferret away some important piece of information.  Intelligent and calculating, Mary surely could hide something of value even in as small a living space such as this flat.

He started with the dresser, digging through the neatly folded clothes, feeling along every surface of it for something that felt out of place.  To see if one drawer might be shorter than the rest, indicating something might be hidden at the back.

He did the same with the bedside tables, concentrating on the one obviously used by Mary; he didn’t think it likely she would hide anything of consequence in John’s. 

His eyes straying to a picture atop her table, he picked it up, studying the smiling faces of a once happy couple. Drawn to John’s face, he couldn’t help but feel as if John looked right at him.   What he wouldn’t give to see that smile on John’s face again.  Looking at _him_ that way.  Shaking the image from his mind, he set the picture back down and moved to the closet.

Closets were wonderful places to bury things better left unseen.  Seemingly innocuous rows of boxes lined the shelves above the hangers. Opening box after box Sherlock meticulously searched through every item they contained, not once taking for granted that anything was as it seemed.  Books were ruffled for pictures or documents lodged between pages.  Shirts were unfolded for something hidden in a sleeve.  Small bottles constructed of green glass were uncapped to sample the scent and taste of the liquid, to check if they contained anything out of the ordinary.    

Deep in the toe of a pair of expensive leather riding boots, Sherlock felt a hard, jagged surface.

A key. 

Well-worn, it appeared that of a house or flat door.  Hanging from a small key ring attached to it was a short, oblong tag, marked 4C.

Sherlock continued searching until he satisfied himself nothing else of value could be found.  He was not disappointed with his lone discovery. 

When he arrived back at the cottage, Sherlock didn’t attempt to sleep, knowing it would be a fruitless effort.  His mind overflowing with the events of the day and the small pile of evidence, he lay on his bed thinking until dawn peeked through his window.

* * *

 

At 7:15 the next morning Sherlock emerged from his room.  Picking a note up off the kitchen table, he read it:

_Good morning, dear.  I’m walking to the other side of town to pick up a bag of virgin wool; the fresh air will do me good.  Breakfast is warming in the oven for you and John.  Eat.  (I’ll know if you don’t.)  I’ll be back around 11._

He decided not to disturb John; it was early yet.   Opening the oven, he took a look at the food inside.  Seeing nothing of interest to him, he closed it, thinking perhaps it best to bury some in the trash compactor, put his mother off the fact he didn’t eat.  But no, that wouldn’t work.  The color of his skin, the height of his eyebrows, or some such ludicrous thing would provide sufficient proof he failed to ingest food.  With an oven mitt, he removed a plate and set it on the hob, waiting for it to cool.

* * *

 

Lost in a book Anthea packed for him, Sherlock startled when the sitting room clock chimed ten o’clock.

Ten?  And John still not up?  John never slept this late.  But…Mrs. Hudson said marriage changes people.  Could this be what she meant?

Rising from the armchair, he walked over to John’s door and rested his ear against it.   He heard nothing.

Lightly tapping twice, when no response came, he opened the door.   Still in bed, the blankets covered John completely. 

But the shape he saw didn’t look consistent with that of John.

Not sure what he would find, but certain it wouldn’t be his sleeping friend, Sherlock ripped the covers off the mound in the bed.  Instead of John, carefully molded piles of blankets and towels rested on the mattress in a rough approximation of a sleeping body.

Sherlock’s mind whirled.  Why did John do this?  If he was not in the cottage, where did he go?

Rushing to the back door, Sherlock threw it open, stunned to see an empty space where the Land Rover should be.  Hurrying to the desk next, he nearly dropped the drawer in his haste to open it.  Looking inside he confirmed what he already knew; the car keys were not there.

Cold fear ran through him as he realized not only were the keys missing from the drawer…but so was the gun. 


	11. Ekaterina

John…

 _Gone_. 

With the gun. 

Alarmed, Sherlock quickly dug his mobile out of his pocket to call him, but dropped it back in as he remembered that Mycroft deactivated John’s, and it hadn’t yet been replaced.  With no way to call him and no vehicle with which to search for him, an uncharacteristic sense of helplessness pervaded Sherlock.   He pulled his mobile out again, this time to call Mycroft.  Voicemail.  He must be in the meeting with the Prime Minister. 

Sherlock’s fingers flew on the keys as he texted. 

_Get a car to the cottage.  NOW._

Sherlock waited one of the longest forty-five minutes of his life.  He sat, incessantly tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.  He paced, his long strides taking him across the sitting room and back every few seconds.  He stood, staring out the window, demanding the car appear.  Immediately.

To make the best use of his interminable wait, Sherlock mentally mapped the entirety of London, adding virtual stick pins to places John might have gone, color-coding them to reflect degrees of likelihood.  The most horrific possibility, yet the least likely knowing his character, was that John went to Royal London Hospital.  No matter his frame of mind, nothing would cause the doctor to act against his code of decency.  Whatever Mary’s wrongs, he would never harm her. Of that, Sherlock felt certain.

Pacing again, Sherlock sent another text:  _You’d best be well on your way or I’ll not be responsible…_

Hearing a car pull into the drive, he hastily grabbed his coat and ran out the door, slamming it behind him.  Without a word he brushed past Anthea as she exited the vehicle, grabbing the keys from her hand and taking her place in the driver’s seat. 

She silently cursed him as he peeled out of the drive, leaving her stranded miles from civilization.

* * *

 

Sherlock feared he wouldn’t find John in time.  ‘In time’ for what, Sherlock couldn’t be sure, but he knew whatever it was, it did not bode well for John’s future.  What purpose could there have been in taking the firearm?  Did John plan to harm someone?  And if not to use it against someone, did he take it to protect _himself_? 

Then Sherlock recalled he told John that Mary was a possible target due to her association with Shikov.   John declared he was ready to divorce her, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t feel compelled to protect the mother of his child.

The detective drove straight to the hospital.

* * *

 

Waiting to make sure Mary’s room was emptied of staff, Sherlock walked in, finding the courtesy of a greeting unnecessary.

“Sherlock!”  Mary instinctively looked past her unwelcome visitor. 

The disappointment crossing her face told Sherlock she did not know her husband’s whereabouts.  His gaze drifting dispassionately to the newborn she held in her arms; he felt no compunction in failing to reveal to John he became a father the evening before.  Had he told John his daughter arrived he might have been unable to keep him from the hospital and get him safely back to the cottage.  He regretted his efforts were for naught.

“Where is John?” Mary asked. 

“He’s at the cottage; I came into the city by myself.  I have business to attend to.”

“You’re lying, Sherlock.  I told you, I’m not as easily fooled as John.  Now tell me,” she demanded, her voice low to keep from disturbing her daughter.  “Where is my husband?” 

At that moment a nurse entered the room, unaware of the underlying hostility between the new mother and her visitor.

“How is Mum? And how is our little Ekaterina?” the nurse asked, cooing as she bent over the newborn.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

Mary bristled, practically hissing, “It was my mother’s name.”

How obvious.  If John did not deduce Mary’s cultural background from that name, well...

Sherlock stood to the side of the room as the nurse fussed over Mary and the baby.  Calculating the timeframe John would have left the cottage whilst avoiding both his mum and himself, Sherlock knew John should have easily reached the hospital well before him if it were his destination.  Reviewing the pins on his virtual map, Sherlock disposed of those that didn’t make sense for a man in search of vindication or retribution.  He eliminated pin after pin until there was only one left…

He turned and left the room without saying another word.

* * *

 

Three steps from the landing, Sherlock paused and listened, hearing nothing but the muffled hum of everyday life in the city coming from outside the building.  No sounds came from 221b. 

Quietly ascending the last steps, he opened the door.  From the doorway he saw John sitting in the chair that had always been his, motionless, appearing to stare into the air at nothing.  With the gun lying on the table by his side.  Lying there innocently, as if it were not an instrument of death.

Relief swept through Sherlock…he was in time.

His eyes remained on John as he slowly unbuttoned his coat and hung it on the rack.  Not quite sure what to do next, he decided to do what John would; he went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, readying the cups whilst the water boiled.

Taking two cups of tea into the sitting room, he set one beside John.  His attention briefly focused on the gun, Sherlock left it where it laid, despite now knowing what John’s intent with it had been. 

Sherlock carried his cup with him to his chair and sat down facing his friend; John had yet to acknowledge his presence.  Crossing his legs, he lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip.  As he looked at John, saw the emptiness in his eyes, saw the look of a man totally lost in the world, an ache deeper than he had ever known filled him.  Somehow his past attempts to merely keep John _alive_ seemed devastatingly insufficient.  No, what he wanted was joy and happiness for him; they were no less than he deserved.  But these were not something Sherlock could provide.

Long minutes passed with neither man speaking, silence filling the room.

Sherlock’s tea grew cold; he would sit and wait as long as he needed to until John was ready to talk. 

John’s finally spoke, the deflated tone piercing Sherlock’s heart.

“I couldn’t do it, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock had no need to be told what ‘it’ was. 

His finger tracing the rim of his teacup absent-mindedly, John continued as if speaking to himself.

“You know, Sherlock, not long before I met you I thought about it.” 

John cleared his throat.  “I did. Had the gun out.  I know now it was never something I would have done, but it always sat in the back of my brain as an option.”

John shifted in his chair and turned his attention to the window above Sherlock’s head, still avoiding the pair of eyes taking in every detail about him. 

He took a fortifying breath and went on.  “When you died, it was hard… yes.  Very.  Seeing Ella got me through it.  Life became…if not good again, at least tolerable.  Then…then I met Mary.  I loved her Sherlock, I truly did.  Not in the ‘soaring over the moon’ kind of way, but it was comfortable and easy, and she made me laugh; she made me feel alive again.  I knew I’d found a good thing and thought, you know, ‘this is meant to be.’

“When I found out you were alive, that you had lied to me, I was so, so angry with you.  But we got past that, you and I.  Didn’t we.  My life was, well, complete.  I had everything.  A woman I loved, my best mate back.  Then we found out we were pregnant; after the initial shock, I couldn’t have been happier.  Everything, _everything_ had come together.  And now…

“Well, it’s all gone to shite again, hasn’t it.”

Listening to John talk, the ache that earlier felt more than Sherlock could bear, grew.  It almost consumed him.   Grasping at the only thing he thought might be able to help John, “You have your daughter, now, John.  She needs you.”

It took everything Sherlock had in him to keep from saying ‘I need you, too.’  He knew that when he went to prison, he would need to know John was out there.  Somewhere.  _Anywhere_.  He knew there would be times the mere knowledge of John’s existence would be the only thing to keep him alive.

“John, there’s something you need to know.”

For the first time since Sherlock entered the flat, John looked directly at him.  Hoping he was doing the right thing, knowing it was if it put some life back into those dead eyes, he said, “She’s here.”

“What do you mean ‘she’s here? ’ 

“She’s, uh, Ekaterina is…here.  Really, John.  Ekaterina?”

“What?!  When…?   How..?”

“I’m certain in the usual way, John.  She was born last night.  I didn’t tell you because I knew you would want to go to hospital and I didn’t think it safe for you to…”

“YOU?  _You_  didn’t think I should be told I became a father?! You bloody wanker.  I am not your bloody prisoner to…”

“She’s beautiful, John.  She has your nose…”

“Jesus Christ, the poor child.”  John’s anger faded into wonder as he envisioned his new daughter.  “Christ, I’m a father.”

John sprang out of his chair and, as an afterthought, asked hesitantly, “Mary?  She’s well?”

“Yes, Mary is fine.”

“John?”

“What?”  Hurriedly putting his jacket on, John looked at the gun and, after brief consideration, tucked it into the back band of his jeans. 

“I know you want to see Ekaterina straight away, but there’s a matter I need to take care of first and it involves you.  I am turning myself in for Magnussen’s murder.  You deserve see your daughter without fear of returning to prison.”

John stopped what he was doing and turned to look at Sherlock.  The detective’s face told him he was dead serious.  As much as John wanted to be a free man, the thought of losing Sherlock again, _right now_ , was unimaginable.

“But, Sherlock…”

“But what, John?  You have a child now.  She is your priority.  I’m not going to get in the way.”

“But, Sherlock…”  John scrambled for something to say.  Having seen Sherlock handcuffed once before, he knew he could never bear seeing it again.  He closed his eyes, torn between two unthinkable futures- to not see his new baby daughter, or to possibly never see Sherlock again except behind a thick plastic wall. 

Dear fucking god. 

Perhaps the inevitable could be postponed…  

“What about Moriarty’s killer?  You said you would wait until you found him.  And by the way, I don’t understand why you’re so concerned.  It’s not as if you, or any one you know, are in danger.  Moriarty is dead.  He’s no longer a threat; you’re safe now.”

Sherlock had to think fast. His original assumption had been that Moriarty died at the hands of one of his own men, someone bent on revenge for slights unknown.  Someone who could conceivably still be a threat to John. But since suspecting a Russian connection, his conclusions were taking him in a different direction.  A direction implying John to be in more danger than first thought.  A direction that implicated Mary.

“Sit down, John.”

John looked at Sherlock as if he was slightly tetched in the head.

“Sit down.  Why?  We’re going to hospital.”

“Remember when you told me you wanted to know _why_ I jumped from St. Barts, not _how_?  I will now tell you why.”

Keeping his eyes on Sherlock, John slowly removed his jacket, laying it on the arm of the chair as he sat back down.  He placed the gun back on the table.

For so long he had wanted to know why Sherlock felt it necessary to cruelly fake his death in front of him and then disappear for two years.  Lifting his chin resolutely, he girded himself to be reminded of the painful memories. The familiar sense of grief and loss washed through him, fainter than before, but cutting nonetheless.

“All right.  Tell me.”

* * *

 

John sat there, overwhelmed as Sherlock finished recounting the day that changed their lives forever. 

“So, you… faked your death for Mrs. Hudson and Greg…for me.”

“Come, now.  When have you ever known me to do anything for altruistic reasons?  No, John.  I didn’t do it for Mrs. Hudson, for Lestrade, or you.  The only person I did it for was me.” _Because what good is life without you?_

“What does this have to do with you now?”

Sherlock sat there, uncomfortably aware of John’s need for an explanation.  He wanted to lie to John, had _planned_ on lying to him to spare him even more unpleasantness.  But for once, Sherlock wearied of his deceptions.  He knew John’s threshold for lies tipped with Mary’s deceit, and he didn’t want to lose John because he, too, had a habit of shielding John from the truth. 

He also knew it never did any good to lie to John; in the end he always found out anyway.  And maybe this way they could get the arguing out of the way now instead of postponing it until later.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s second revelation of the day left John reeling far more than the first.  And that was without sharing the small bit of information that he suspected Mary of colluding with Shirkov to end the detective’s life.

Mary… a _Russian_ assassin?  Possibly killed Moriarty?!  Maybe she’s _still_ an assassin?!

Why hadn’t he seen it?  _Any_ of it?

“What the bloody hell?!  And you didn’t think I would find any of this relevant?  You thought ‘oh, I’m just going to keep John in the dark.  Maybe he’ll never find out?  Maybe it won’t _matter_ to him?!’”

Whilst Sherlock internally recoiled in the face of John’s justifiable anger, he couldn’t help but be pleased.  Any emotion was an improvement over his earlier despondency.    

Sherlock watched as John launched out of his chair, grabbed his jacket and fled the apartment.  He let him go without protest, knowing John needed to let loose the pressure that had been building in him for months.

After checking to make sure John didn’t break the hinges on the door, he picked up the gun, emptied it of ammunition, and took it down to Mrs. Hudson’s for safe keeping.

* * *

 

Nearly two hours later John re-entered the flat. 

Looking up from his book, Sherlock asked, “Feel better?”

“No. No, Sherlock, I do _not_ feel ‘better.’  Am I ready to get on with it and climb out of this…this… _rabbit_ hole I’ve fallen into?  Yes. There will never be a good time, so this is as good as any.”

Seeing Sherlock’s confusion, he offered, “Alice in Wonderland?  Revered children’s book?”   With no hint of recognition on Sherlock’s face, John muttered, “Never mind.

“So what do we do now? Go about having my wife arrested for the murder of Moriarty?  As if _that_ were a heinous crime.” 

“My goal, John, is not to have your wife arrested, but to see that whoever has it out for me will never use you a pawn.  Ever again.”

“You’ll never be finished then, will you?  If you haven’t noticed, you’ve pissed off pretty much everyone you’ve ever met.”

Sighing deeply, John apologized.  “I’m sorry, Sherlock; that was uncalled for.  It’s going to take me time to absorb everything that’s happening.  I think we should expect it to take a while.”

John ran his hand roughly through his hair, the enormity of the day suddenly hitting him.

Seeing John’s exhaustion, Sherlock said, “If you want to go back the cottage, we can stay there a couple of days, let you rest.”

“No.  I need to move forward, Sherlock.  Assassin wife or not…” John’s voice broke.  After taking a moment to collect himself, he cleared his throat and continued.  “Whether or not Mary is responsible for Moriarty’s death, I have a daughter to take care of.  Ekaterina deserves a better start to life than with an absent father.” 

The two hours after John left the flat, he walked Regents Park, arguing with God, yelling at Him for the unfairness of it all.  That he had to choose between his daughter and his best friend.  But he eventually came to terms with the fact that as an adult Sherlock made his own decision to kill Magnussen; he created his own consequence, however unpleasant it might be for both of them. 

Ekaterina entered the world in innocence, and she needed a father.  To love her, to cradle her in his arms.  As soon as possible.

“Okay, Sherlock. Let’s go. 

“Let’s find out once and for all if my wife is still an assassin.”


	12. Heartbroken

Hearing the ‘let’s’ in what John said, Sherlock cautiously hoped for more time with him. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?  You can go home right now, prepare your flat for when Mary and Ekaterina go home from hospital.” 

John studied Sherlock’s face.  The face of the man who became one of the most important, if not _the_ most important, person in his life.  The face that in a few short years led him into more danger and ridiculous situations than any one person should be a part of in a lifetime. The face that made a life that once looked hopeless, hopeful and interesting.  No, more than interesting, Sherlock had made him feel _alive_ again.   

Despite the careful mask of stoicism on his friend’s face, John saw everything he knew the proud man would not want him to see.  Hope.  Fear.

Need.

More certain than of anything than he had been in a long time, the doctor said quietly, “Yes, Sherlock, I’m sure.” 

The only response John saw was Sherlock’s eyelids as they fluttered twice in rapid succession, telling John everything he needed to know.  He had given the right answer; the detective was relieved not be left to fight the battle alone, friendless.

They would proceed, then.  The two of them.

Quickly getting down to business, Sherlock told John, “Here’s your new phone; Mycroft deactivated our mobiles so we couldn’t be tracked.  The important numbers you need are programmed into it, and it answers to the same number as your old one.  ~~~~

“When I was in your flat last night, I found this,” he went on, removing a tagged key from his inner suit pocket.  “I’m not sure of its importance, but it must have some meaning elsewise why would I have found it in the boot of a toe, boxed high in the closet?” 

John’s eyes snapped from the small object in Sherlock’s hand to the detective’s face.  Sherlock rummaged through his closet?  When?  _Why_?

“Uh, Sherlock, when did you go through my closet?  You were in the sitting room the entire time we were in my flat last night.”

Faintly annoyed at John’s ability to be distracted by insignificant details, Sherlock rose from his chair taking the phone and key to where John hunched, elbows on knees.  “That’s not important,” he said more brusquely than he intended.  “Now, John, look; do you recognize this key?” 

Having no question of where he had seen it before, John asked, “Where did you get that?” 

He held up his hand.  “No, I know, you just told me.”  How it still ever surprised him Sherlock would so casually invade his privacy, he didn’t know.  If he was honest with himself, he knew it stopped bothering him long ago.

“That’s the key to the flat Mary lived in when we met.  Why would she still have it?  When we moved her I saw her give it to her landlady.”

An unfamiliar ringtone sounded, startling them; it took a moment for Sherlock to realize it was his new mobile. 

“What do you want Mycroft?....No, I gave it to a band of gypsies ~ of course I still have the car…..It will have to wait; I have work to do.”

“Fine.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes for John’s benefit, clearly irritated at the disruption.

Shoving his mobile back in his pocket, “Apparently Anthea was in a snit because I left her stranded ‘in the middle of nowhere’.  As if she didn’t have the means to get herself back to the city.

“Now where were we, John? Oh, yes.  Very good question.  Why would Mary still have the key whilst trying to make you believe she doesn’t?  Why don’t we give the flat a visit and confirm it still fits.”

With long strides he walked briskly to the door, barely pausing to snatch his coat and scarf, leaving John to hurry after him. 

“We need to drop my brother’s car by the Diogenes Club on our way.  It seems with an entire government’s resources at his disposal they cannot find him transportation.”

Stopping abruptly mid-stride, John nearly ran into him. Sherlock turned and, his fingers suddenly still on the half-wrapped scarf, looked soberly at John.  “I’m glad you’re all right.  Had anything happened to you…”

“It’s not your fault, Sherlock.  I chose Mary.  If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened.”  

Sherlock knew no matter what John said, he was responsible for the intolerable circumstance John now found himself in.  Had the detective not been gone those two long years, John might well have not met Mary, would not find himself in a marriage already falling apart.  Had he not been so blinded to Mary’s obvious deceits he might have exposed earlier the danger Mary brought to their lives.  John would not be wanted for murder.

Yes, had John ended his life due to his inexcusable mistakes he knew there was no way he could live with himself.

“Meet me at the Diogenes club; we will leave Mycroft’s car and take the Land Rover from there.”

* * *

 

“Are we going public now?”

Mycroft reproached his brother as soon as the door clicked closed behind the assistant, leaving the three men alone in the private office.

“I’m sure you are aware you are putting Dr. Watson in danger by bringing him here.  After all, there _is_ the small matter of his fugitive status.”

Sherlock had little patience for his brother’s concern.  “I’m going to take responsibility for Magnussen’s death, Mycroft; you know as well as I do John did not kill him. As for the _fugitive_ status, I have no doubt you can take care of that inconvenience with little effort.  I’ll confess to blackmailing him as the means to get him to go along.  Shouldn’t be difficult to believe, coming from a murderer.” 

Mycroft gestured to the chairs facing him.  “Do sit, Sherlock, Dr. Watson.  Let us discuss this.  I am only mid-way to securing an alternative to prison.  Should you rush headlong, as you so often do,” Mycroft said drily, “into a confession, I fear it may produce a more unfortunate outcome.”

“We’re not staying. We have business to which we need to attend.  I will notify you when I am ready to release myself into custody and I would consider it a great favor if you will handle the transfer, keep the newspapers at a distance.”

For the first time in his life, Mycroft found himself unable to formulate a scathing response.  When only days earlier he had so uncommonly expressed sentiment to his brother, telling Sherlock he would be at a loss without him, never did he think that loss would come so very soon.  He knew well the likelihood was slim that he would, within days, formalize discussions to keep Sherlock from incarceration.  And as he just told his brother, if Sherlock went into prison before the deal was finalized, Sherlock would stay behind bars the rest of his life. 

“Surely your business isn’t so important that you cannot wait for me to finish my negotiations?”

Unused to seeing his elder brother anything less than arrogant made Sherlock uneasy.  It wasn’t that he refused help with solving Moriarty’s murder, but that after this there would be no more time for him and John. No, he would not tell Mycroft what their intentions were.

“Mycroft, for once just do as I ask,” Sherlock demanded, the sincerity of the ‘please’ that followed moments later heartbreaking, coming unexpectedly as it did from the man who never pleaded for anything. 

Mycroft’s gaze drifted down as he watched the amber fluid swirl in his tumbler, the practiced motion of his wrist almost a reflex.  “Of course. Whatever I can do.”

His eyes lifting back up to Sherlock, the two brothers looked at each other, a lifetime of unspoken words hanging between them, neither able to verbalize the gaping void they would experience without the other readily at hand.

“Before you go, I have something that might be of interest to you.”  Appearing almost weary, Mycroft stood and went to his desk.  He opened his laptop and powered it on.  As he spoke he opened a file, printing from it a three page document.

“A young man seeking protection announced himself at Scotland Yard where he confessed to programming the network for Moriarty’s message.  He did not upload the message and he never saw Moriarty; he said he was approached by a woman, 35-40 years of age, showing government identification, who secured his services to connect the internet and CCTVs. Here is a copy of his statement.”

Already having positioned himself near the printer, Sherlock pulled out the sheets, quickly scanning them. 

Approached two months earlier, Sanjay Hazarika’s services were contracted for the generous sum of £250,000 if he successfully completed the network on schedule.  Of particular interest to Sherlock was the description of the ‘official’; most certainly she carried false identification.

Examining the document, something else struck him; an imperfection running through the print niggled at the back of his brain.  Where had he seen that before?  Sherlock cocked his head, his eyes trained on Mycroft.

Mycroft looked up from his laptop into a pair of blue eyes intensely regarding him with dismay. “Do you know who the woman is, Sherlock?  Our analysts ran her through our face-recognition software, but Mr. Hazarika rejected any matches as having been the woman who contacted him.” 

“Yes, Mycroft, I believe I do know who she is.  And no, you won’t find her in your database.  But there is something else about this document, the paper itself, which strikes me as familiar.”  

Opening the toner compartment of the printer, he pulled out the cartridge.  His fingernails picking at a tiny shred of paper stuck to the cartridge, he held it out towards Mycroft.  In his other hand dangled a page from Sanjay’s confession.

“Where do you think I’ve seen _this_ before? _”_ Sherlock pointed at a faint white line running through the print, his brows rising as his eyes bore into his brother.  “Does ‘Alexis Galina Ruslana Antonovich’ ring a bell?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Mycroft’s feigned ignorance fooled no one.

“Come now, you know very well what I’m talking about. Why, Mycroft?” 

John, who until that time remained quiet, shifted his attention back and forth between the two brothers, confused by the standoff. “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“Yes, tell us, Mycroft.  What is going on?” 

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, appearing to choose carefully the words he directed to John. “What Sherlock is trying to intimate with an obvious lack of subtlety, Dr. Watson, is that I initiated the correspondence your wife received.”

“What?  You mean the letters with Mary’s names on them?”

“I have been well aware for some time that your wife did not fully disclose her past to you and I felt compelled, for reasons I do not care to divulge, to move things along.  Before you became incarcerated I instructed Anthea to mail the letters and, frankly, during the commotion of the murder and the events that transpired afterwards, they escaped my memory until it they were already in the post.”

“But why would you do that?”  Just bewildered enough at _once more_ having Sherlock’s brother stick his rather prominent nose where it didn’t belong, John did not yet feel his rising anger.

“Yes, brother, do tell,” Sherlock adjoined.

“I do not think, _brother,_ you want me to share the reasons why.”  Mycroft glanced pointedly to John.  “I presume it is a matter you wish to be kept private.”

“Don’t be so clandestine, Mycroft; I have nothing to hide from John.”

“Perhaps you have more to hide than you think.”

“Don’t be boring.  Out with it.”

“I don’t know whether you willfully ignored your suspicions or if you allowed them to be obscured by other, shall I say, sentiments.  But since you were reluctant to do so, I felt it prudent to bring Mary’s past to light.”  Mycroft paused before adding, “Because of John’s importance to you.”

Sherlock scoffed.  “Of course, John is important to me; that is nothing new.  Come Mycroft, I have nothing to hide from him.  Now what is it.”

Sighing, Mycroft said, “Don’t say I didn’t caution you.”   

John watched the two Holmes volley words that were on the surface, polite, but underpinned with barbed wire.  Fascination and dread warred inside him as he waited, anxious to learn what they were talking about.

“I sent the letters because of you.”  Mycroft, frustrated with his dim-witted brother, practically spat out the words.  “You were so distracted by your infatuation with, or shall I say… _love_ for, Dr. Watson, you were blinded in the face of the obvious.  Mrs. Watson needed to be exposed for who and what she truly is.  Her very existence is a threat to the man you are in love with.”

Mycroft’s stridency dissipated as he said, “Despite what you think of me, Sherlock, I am no monster; I have no desire to see you unhappy.  If Dr. Watson is important to you, then he is important to me.”

Sherlock shut his own eyes against those that would surely be seeking him out, wondering if the words Mycroft spoke were true.  Blood coursed through his brain, pounding at his temples.

How would he ever again be able to face John?

“I did warn you, Sherlock," the tinge of apology in Mycroft’s voice too late.  The words that should not have been spoken were already dropping to the floor with a crash, shattering Sherlock’s thin veneer of composure.

John cleared his throat, unsure if they remembered he was there.  “Well, are we done here, then?  Time to go to the flat, isn’t it, Sherlock?

As if he didn’t hear him, Sherlock spun towards the door, practically sprinting in his haste to remove himself from the room.  Pausing briefly as he reached the door, he spoke over his shoulder, “I’ll be in touch when it’s time, Mycroft.  Arrange whatever you need to ensure John is cleared of all charges.  He is innocent.  Of everything.”

Mycroft nodded silently after his brother, regretting deeply it would likely be the last time he would see him a free man.

* * *

 

Sherlock and John walked to the Land Rover, each absorbed in their own thoughts.  Each grateful that the only light, coming from the street lamps, was not strong enough to fully illuminate emotions they would rather not reveal.

Sherlock’s world slowly collapsed in on him as he realized with sickening clarity he once again fell for a man who could never reciprocate his love. 

John reeled from the revelation.  While stunned that his friend could experience such an emotion for him, for _anyone,_ he felt embarrassed for Sherlock; he knew the detective too well to think it did not cost him dearly to have such intimate information spoken aloud.

In an attempt to distract Sherlock, John asked, “What do you think we’ll find at Mary’s flat?  What are you looking for?”

It took another block before Sherlock spoke, using the voice he chose for people whom he had no tolerance.  The voice he used to keep them from coming too close. 

“I don’t know.  If she is hiding the fact she has the flat, then I presume if there is anything to connect her to Moriarty’s death, or any other illegal activities she may be involved in, we will find it there.”

Walking the rest of the way in uncomfortable silence, they reached the vehicle and climbed in. 

Several miles into their journey, John cautiously broached the subject that so quickly built a wall between them.  With little time left for them to be together, they needed to tear it down; it couldn’t be allowed to become insurmountable.  Any other option was simply unacceptable. 

“Is it true then what Mycroft said?” He asked as kindly as he could, willing Sherlock to, for once, share a bit of what he hid behind his carefully constructed armor.  To let John in.

After a long pause, the rich baritone tentatively filled the small space inside the car.

“Yes, John.”

“Bit of a surprise, that.  We’ve been friends a long time now and I, well, I never had  a clue you felt that way.”  This was far more difficult than he thought it would be.  “But you do know I don’t feel…that way, don’t you?” 

“I am well aware, John.”  

Despite being uncomfortable with such sentiments and even more uncomfortable with expressing them, John knew he couldn’t leave it there.  Couldn’t let Sherlock think that though his love would never be similarly returned, that he was not necessary to John.

“You are the most amazing person I ever met and always will be.  Your friendship is the only thing…well, you’re very important to me Sherlock.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, John.”

At a loss for what to say next and with no way to bridge the silence that followed, John turned his attention to the city passing by them, relieved to know they would soon reach their destination. As much as he feared what other secrets Mary kept from him, John hoped that getting Sherlock back to work on the case would ease the tension between himself and the man he valued above all other men.

Dear God, please.

* * *

 

As he drove, Sherlock’s thoughts were not on Mary and what clues they might find linking her to Moriarty, but on John.

When he realized he was in love with John it came as a complete surprise.  Not so much that he loved John, but that he hadn’t _known_.   Being surprised he loved John should have been every bit as ridiculous as if he had suddenly realized he carried within his chest a beating heart, lungs that expanded and contracted to give him air.  Functions that carried on day and night, without thought or care, sustaining him minute by minute, hour by hour.  Functions essential to life.  

Just as John’s presence had become essential to sustaining him.

Sherlock had thought his heart broken beyond repair when he so long ago learned Troy didn’t return his love.  How wrong he had been.  What he felt then was the merest pinprick compared to the sharp knife slicing into his heart as he heard, _knew_ , John did not love him in return.

He stared straight ahead at the road in front of them, careful not to look at John, his hands gripping the steering wheel until he could almost see the whites of his knuckles. 


	13. Battlefield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, my babysitter, my hand holder, my prop-er upper, the one who believes in me when I don't. Bless you, Burning_Up_A_Sun.

Staring at Sherlock’s sharp profile, the mass of black hair, the upturned coat collar, Mycroft’s words to Sherlock echoed in his head, ‘the man you are in love with’.   So concerned had he been with protecting Sherlock’s pride in the face of the apparently unwelcome admission, John had pushed aside all other reactions but his surprise.  Little could be more surprising than the notoriously anti-social detective having emotional attachment to _anyone,_ let alone an unassuming ex-soldier with half the mental capacity of that gargantuan brain. 

Sherlock, in love.  With him.  It didn’t make _sense_.  Sherlock was one of the most self-contained people John had ever met, neither wanting nor needing anyone’s affection or approval.  Or companionship.

That wasn’t quite true, was it, John realized.  He had always thought Sherlock’s desire for his company was in the capacity of helpmate, someone to tag along after him and be a sounding board for his brilliance.  But it was more than that.  Looking back, from the beginning it had been about more than tolerance; at no time was it more apparent than when Sherlock had helped plan the wedding.  The thought of Sherlock folding all those buggering linens almost made John laugh.

A flush of warmth filled his body.  What the fuck did Sherlock always try to hammer into his head?  ‘You see but you do not observe.’ 

John flashed back to his proposal to Mary, the pause when he told her that she was the best thing that happened to him.  Like a gale force blowing away the clouds, it hit John why he had paused. 

Sherlock - the man whom he killed someone for, the man whom he went to prison in behalf of - not Mary, was the best thing that had ever happened to him.  Even then he had known it deep down inside; he just hadn’t been able to admit it to himself.

It should have told him something that ever since he met the detective his overriding concern was to protect him, both physically and emotionally.  It should have told him something that the happiest, most comfortable times in his life were with Sherlock by his side.  It should have been abundantly clear how much Sherlock meant to him when he was almost on the brink of death himself when Sherlock ‘died’.

He’d never looked that closely at their ‘relationship’; their friendship just always _was._   But to hear that Sherlock was in love with him shook him to the core, making him see everything. 

 _Everything_.  

Dear fucking Christ.  Now what?

He felt ashamed at what he told Sherlock minutes earlier, that the detective was ‘very important’ to him.  Whilst true, it had to have sounded as if a slap to the face.  How more patronizing could he have been?  But what else could he have said when he himself was only just now realizing what Sherlock meant to him?

* * *

 

Despite John’s attempts to draw his friend out, Sherlock had remained silent the rest of the drive to Mary’s old flat.  As they briskly walked the two blocks through the dilapidated neighborhood scarred by disrepair and garbage-cluttered pavement.  Past the whimpering dog hidden in the dark bowels of the alley behind the building. 

When they reached the flat door, the key Sherlock had found in John’s flat easily gave them access to a room sparsely appointed with furniture John had not seen before.  More a functional space than a home, given the lack of domestic touches such as pictures or knickknacks, the flat was small enough for them to walk through in a couple of minutes.  

Carefully searching each room, they left for last the most likely source of information: a sturdy six-foot tall metal cabinet secured with a heavy padlock. Sherlock made quick work picking it open with the small set of tools he took from his inner coat pocket.

 John stood with Sherlock in the bedroom of the small flat, his arms folded tightly across his chest.  His left hand clenched into a fist under the fold.

“Sherlock, you can’t just never speak to me again.”  Not now.  Not now that I know how much you mean to me. 

John waited for him to say or do something, waited for _any_ sign telling him they would be okay.  That after all they had been through this would not be the thing to finally come between them.  It couldn’t be.

Sherlock’s  hand paused on the lock as he listened to John.  What could he say?  That he felt like a fool?  That he betrayed John’s trust by developing feelings that could never be reciprocated?  That nobody had ever mattered so much to him, never would? 

Better to say nothing than to make matters worse. 

Resolutely unhooking the padlock from the clasp, Sherlock opened the cabinet doors wide. What he saw inside immediately caused him to forget his inner struggle.  Hearing the sharp intake of breath from the man standing beside him, Sherlock looked at John, instantly regretting his decision to bring the doctor along.  To be the reason John now felt the full force of his wife’s betrayal.

For sitting before them lay the Battlefield. 

* * *

 

Mary finished applying make-up purchased by the hospital courier; she could not appear to be weak, despite the very real justification of just having given birth.  Surveying her still-pale appearance in the pocket mirror, she knew her meager preparations would have to do. 

Glancing at the clock, she quickened her pace.  Her visitor would be prompt; she guessed no more than five minutes early and not a minute late.  Tugging at the lapels of her robe to make sure her now ample bosom revealed no more than modesty dictated, she stepped over to the bassinet and gently scooped up Ekaterina.   

“My precious girl,” she whispered to the small, wizened face she held in her arms as she sat down in the chair.  “You are more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.  Your daddy is going to fall in love with you.”

Holding the sleeping infant with one arm, her other hand fidgeted with her robe, arranging it just so, smoothing it down where it draped over her legs.  Watching her tiny daughter, she gazed in wonder at the miracle she and John created.

She couldn’t help the worry that creased her brow.  Where _was_ he?  Even were he unaware she gave birth, which she found unlikely given the fact she spotted Sherlock in the hall the previous evening, why hadn’t he called?  Her calls to him had gone straight to voicemail, none returned.  And if something had happened to him or if he had been arrested wouldn’t Sherlock have let her know, even if his purpose was to hurt her?

So distracted was she by thoughts of her missing husband, she failed to notice her visitor enter the room.

“Good evening, Mrs. Watson.”

Mary raised her head to meet penetrating eyes that seemed to see right through her.

“Mycroft.  I would ask you if you would like to have a seat, but I can’t think you’ll be staying long.”  Self-discipline honed from years of practice was all that kept her hands still; she could not allow the man before her witness even the minutest amount of uneasiness.  She must appear strong.

“You would be correct, Mrs. Watson.  Our business is almost finished.  Have you given my proposition further consideration?”

Mary held Ekaterina firmly to her, unconsciously using her as a shield to the outrageous ‘proposition’ Mycroft asked her to accept.  ‘Threat’ would be a more appropriate characterization.

“I told you earlier the answer is ‘ _no_ ’.  Choosing between a life without John and my child, and almost certain death, is not a ‘ _choice’_ , Mr _._ Holmes.  Now please leave, or I will ring the nurse and request security escort you out.”

Mycroft studied his umbrella, its tip pivoting on the shiny tile beneath.  The expression on his face more chilling than any words he could speak, he offered her a final thought, “I do hope you do not regret your decision.  I will not be asking again.”

Neither willing to back down from their stance, Mary’s and Mycroft’s eyes locked.

Mary’s, defiant in the face of the arrogant presumption her future could be manipulated against her will. 

Mycroft’s, expectant in hopes she would change her mind, not that he truly thought she would.  Her words had said ‘no’.  Her eyes, ‘fuck _you_ ’.  He hid the small smile that matched the coldness of his eyes, allowing it to unfold only after he turned to leave the room.  Confident she would see his perspective and come around, for she was greatly mistaken if she failed to recognize he was not a man without vast resources.  

* * *

 

Sherlock and John faced each other, stunned at the wealth of evidence they found.  Evidence that Mary had indeed not left her old life behind and apparently had no intention of doing so.  Bundles of cash in large notes, close to a dozen firearms of varying calibers and gauges, ammunition, a multitude of passports and driving licences with varying names, all bearing Mary’s picture. 

All but one.  A government badge bearing the picture of a beautiful brunette in her early-to-mid thirties. 

Janine Hawkins.

Dangling the ID from his fingers, Sherlock wryly uttered his first words since they entered the flat, “Everyone needs a confidante.”

* * *

 

Janine pulled the mask down over her face before cautiously climbing out the window and onto the roof.  The drop from where she would perch afforded no room for error; she would surely be killed if she made one misstep and fell.  The Dragonuv rested on her back, secured by a sturdy strap draped over her shoulder. 

Soon Sherlock would arrive, taking his position on the nearby roof.  The final character in the play Mary scripted and Janine would execute.  Execute.  How fitting a description. 

Janine knew the detective craved a good mystery, not unlike an alcoholic craving his next drink.  This one would be far too enticing for Sherlock to resist.

And it would undoubtedly be his last.

* * *

 

The trip from the flat to hospital was even quieter than that from the Diogenes Club.  Each man lost in his own private world, lamenting what little time they had left together.  Lamenting important words left unsaid; neither willing to take the risk of laying himself bare.   

Sherlock braked to a stop in front of the A & E entrance.  “I’ll park the car and follow in a few minutes; it will give you time to speak with Mary alone.”

John nodded in agreement, his lips tight in anticipation of the difficult conversation to come with his wife.

He watched as the taillights of the Land Rover pulled away in search of a parking spot.  Pacing in front of the entrance, he played nervously with the mobile in his pocket, contemplating how he would tell Mary he could not remain married to her.  That divorced or not she could not continue with her double life; it would put their child in danger.

Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed that instead of circling the packed car park for an empty space, the vehicle drove to the far exit and stopped.  Finding a break in the traffic, the Land Rover pulled out onto the main road and drove away.

‘What the…?  Where is he off to?’  John thought in bewilderment.

Pulling the mobile out of his pocket to call the detective and ask him where the bloody hell he was going, several texts appeared on the screen.  He tapped the mobile to see the full messages.

_I’m waiting   JM_

**_I have no intention of following you into Hell.  SH_ **

_I’m crushed, Sherlock.  Do you think I would leave before we finished the game?  Come play with me.  I’m not done burning the heart out of you._

Moriarty?  _Alive?!_   John stared at the mobile.  He could hear Sherlock’s brain churn, unable to resist the allure of Moriarty’s siren call.

**_Bart’s?  SH_ **

Jesus, Sherlock.  No!

_You haven’t forgotten, good boy.  Now come.  It’s time to solve the final problem._

Like fucking hell it is!

John’s mind raced.  Sherlock said he was certain Moriarty died that night.  Had he been wrong?  And when did Sherlock borrow his mobile? John reached into his other pocket and a chill ran through him.  Pulling out an identical mobile, it came back to him that he had picked it up off the bed, thinking it was his own.  Dear Christ.  Now he remembered.  Sherlock received a text but when John asked who it came from, Sherlock said ‘no one’.  John had thought Sherlock preoccupied when he replied, but attributed it to the tumultuousness of the day.

John ran to the front of the hospital to find a cab; his discussion with Mary would have to wait.  Shoving out of the way a man about to step into an awaiting cab, John barked at the driver as he jumped into the back, slamming the door shut, “St. Bart’s!” 

Could Sherlock really be so _bloody_ stupid as to fall into the same trap again?  John felt the bile rise up in his throat, knowing this time Sherlock wouldn’t have time to create an elaborate plan, ensuring his survival. 

No, this time Moriarty might win.

* * *

 

Sherlock stepped out onto the roof of St. Bart’s, a sense of déjà vu washing over him.  What he saw now was almost exactly as it had nearly 3 years before, only this time there were lights dotting the skyline, darkness adding serenity that could not be found in the daytime.   

Moriarty, dressed in the similar clothing to what he had worn before, sat on the ledge at the far end of the roof.  The tinny strains of ‘Stayin’ Alive’ came from the miniscule speakers of an unseen mobile . 

The lone difference from their last meeting- a light shining on Moriarty, giving him an eerie glow.  Sherlock quickly searched for the source of light, but could see none.  He scanned the surrounding buildings, his peripheral vision never allowing him to lose sight of Moriarty.  Nothing Sherlock saw appeared out of place; nothing appeared suspicious. 

Not until his eyes rested on the roof of the building opposite them, the one he and John had scaled.

In almost the exact spot they found the Dragonuv shell casing the day before, a small, red dot of light held steady.  A small, red dot that could only be that of a sniper rifle. 

Was it trained on Moriarty or himself?  Sherlock didn’t have enough information to calculate its line of sight, not without being able to see the rifle itself.  Moriarty didn’t move the entire time.  Didn’t speak.  Sherlock puzzled at this.  Something wasn’t right.  It wasn’t like Moriarty to remain silent; Sir Boast-a-Lot couldn’t be a more apt pseudonym for the consulting criminal. 

Hearing the door open behind him, Sherlock turned just enough to see John emerge from the roof’s outlet. 

Slightly out of breath and teeth tightly clenched, John’s hatred for the man sitting beyond Sherlock on the roof’s edge seeped out of every pore of him.  His eyes fixed on Moriarty, he single-mindedly reached into the back band of his jeans and pulled out the pistol, lifting it into position. 

Sherlock shook his head ‘no’, jerking his chin toward the escape, clearly indicating John should leave.  John rebelliously ignored Sherlock’s command, never taking his eyes off Moriarty.  He hadn’t been able to intervene in Sherlock’s and Moriarty’s last confrontation, and he would not let Sherlock persuade him to leave.  This time Mrs. Hudson wasn’t dying.

“No, Sherlock,” he hissed.  “I’m not going to let that bastard fuck with you again.  If you had any sense, you wouldn’t either.”

“You need to leave, John.  Now.  That’s _not_ Moriarty and…”

A strong gust of wind blew the heavy door wide open, striking John sharply on his elbow.   

His finger poised on the gun’s trigger, the blow hit him as he fired, jerking his aim from its intended target.

The deafening blast reverberated through the night, startling a nearby trio of birds into flight.

Moriarty didn’t flinch, his mobile looping the song back to its beginning in a macabre backdrop to the scene playing out around them.

John’s eyes shifted to Sherlock’s face.  The detective stared back at him, his thick brows furrowed. 

“What is it, Sherlock?”  The confusion in Sherlock’s eyes frightened him. 

Sherlock’s fingers unsteadily sought out and fumbled at his coat, pulling it aside to reveal a dark stain spreading wide across his white shirt.  Silent words tumbled out of his mouth as he struggled to breathe, his eyes meeting John’s, pleading for help. Pleading not to die this way.  Not now.

“Sherlock….!!”  John cried out as he lunged forward, arms outstretched to catch the man whose knees buckled as he fell unconscious.

* * *

 

For six days Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite lucid enough to engage with those around him, but awake enough to digest small snippets of conversation.

“Blood loss…bullet…no permanent damage.”  ‘Must be doctors,’ Sherlock hazily deduced.  

“Oh, Mycroft, how could you let this happen _again_?”  The female voice, at once anguished, insinuating, and forgiving.  Mum, then.

“I did not _let_ it happen,” the voice petulant and frightened.  Mycroft.

“We caught her on her way out of Heathrow.”  Haggard... Lestrade.

Voices of nurses and housekeepers and even a Chaplain (a chaplain?!).

But never once did he hear the voice he listened for. 

The one voice he lived for.

John’s.

* * *

 

“John?”  Dry and disused, the deep voice resonated more deeply than usual.  Sherlock blinked against the light, forcing himself to keep his eyes open.

“Thank god, you’re awake.”  Mycroft arose from his chair and stood over where his brother laid, not quite sure what to do once he got there.

“Where…?”

Unable to face Sherlock, Mycroft looked away.  “Dr. Watson is gone.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.  John.  Gone.  His chest tightened, the heart within it pushing his blood loudly to his ears.

“He didn’t suffer…?”  As difficult as it was to rasp the words, he had to know.  He had to know John felt no pain as he died.

Hearing the despair in Sherlock’s voice, Mycroft turned his head to look at him.  “ Ahhh, I see, you think Dr. Watson has perished.  He’s not dead, Sherlock.  He…he has left London,” knowing as he said it that would be minor consolation.  Dead or gone, they bore little difference in this case.

Sherlock opened the palm of his hand.  “Mobile.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, searching for a way to soften the impact, finding none.  “He doesn’t want you to contact him, Sherlock.  He doesn’t want anyone to be in touch with him.  I…I’m sorry.”

“For how long?”

Sherlock saw the answer on Mycroft’s face, the face that found it impossible to tell the only brother he had left, that the man he was in love with would not be coming home. 

With what little strength he had, Sherlock implored the government official, “You have your ways.  Find him.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.  His express wish is to be left alone; he secured my promise to do so.  I fear that to break my word will have dire consequences.”

Holding his gaze, Sherlock saw the truth in what he heard; not even Mycroft could feign such regret in so important a matter.

He shut his eyes and turned away from his brother, hiding from him a pain deeper and more damaging than that of any bullet wound.   

A pain that cut a wide swath through the very core of him, making it difficult for him to breathe.


	14. Always

**Eleven months later**

Sherlock’s fingers smoothed along the edges of the envelope. 

To anyone else there would be nothing distinctive about it. A plain, off-white, business-size envelope, the crease on the corner flattened by the heft of the book it lay under for nearly a year.  Never sealed, there had been no need to tear it open, leaving it in almost perfect condition.

Yes, there was the lone ‘Sherlock’ scrawled across the front, scrawled in the hurried hand of doctor used to scribbling out copious prescriptions and medical notes.  The hurried hand of John.

But as significant as that was, it was not what made the envelope different. 

No, what made it distinctive was the note within, a somewhat perfunctory note telling Sherlock he would never see John again.  A note that said John was very sorry, but he couldn’t stay in London.  He needed to get himself sorted, and to do that he needed to start a new life elsewhere.  ‘ _Please forgive me,’_ it said.

A note that told Sherlock everything he needed to know and yet nothing he _wanted_ to know.  A note that shattered his world.

Feeling the inexpensive paper against his fingertips, he debated opening the envelope and once again reading the brief letter, something he had not done in many months.  But there really was no need; he knew by heart every letter, every punctuation mark within as if they were seared onto the very surface of his brain, never to be erased.  Letters and words that, despite their unequivocal message, he at first hadn’t believed, wouldn’t believe.  But as the second hands on the clock ticked slowly through time that at some point ceased to have meaning, Sherlock knew that what John said had been true; never again would he see the man who had become the beat of his heart. 

There were many times in the last eleven months Sherlock feared he might not survive.  Not due to the injury that caused a long and painful recovery, but because the one person he cared for more than any other was no longer by his side.  And though he had been separated from John one time before, the devastatingly long two years it took to destroy Moriarty’s web, that had been vastly different.  That time Sherlock had had a mission. A mission that when finished, would reunite him with his greatest friend and partner.

But this time…this time, it was John who left.  Left with strict instructions not to be contacted.  As difficult as it was for him, Sherlock respected his wishes; John must have had a very good reason, even if Sherlock couldn’t fathom ever agreeing with it. The detective didn’t try to find him or ask Mycroft for help, save for the lone request of his brother whilst he was in hospital. 

Occasionally Sherlock played a pointless game with himself, determining which hurt more, John’s absence or the fact that he had left with no explanation. Without sufficient information as to John’s reasoning, Sherlock tasked himself with filling in the blank, conjuring up endless justifications for why John might have left.  None he found more disturbing and painful than the possibility John was so repulsed at being loved by a man, by _him_ , that he couldn’t face Sherlock.  So repulsed that he found leaving his home preferable to maintaining a friendship that Sherlock knew he found valuable.

Picking the lighter up off the mantel, Sherlock deliberately pressed his finger to the trigger, bringing the flame close to the envelope, pausing just before the two met.  Just before destroying the last tangible remnant of a friendship that had brought true meaning to an otherwise solitary life.

Yes.  It was time.

Touching the flame to the envelope, he watched the paper curl, watched it shrivel into delicate ashes that flitted through the air like fairy dust.  Watched the flame draw closer to him, dancing at his fingertips until it grew too uncomfortable to hold the envelope any longer.  He threw it into the fireplace, staring at it until the last bit of fire extinguished, until nothing remained but a small pile of black dust.  A pile of dust not dissimilar to the state of his heart.

The letter now gone, it was time to move on. 

Time to lay to rest the memory of John Watson. 

* * *

 

John assessed his reflection in the mirror.  His meticulous preparations reminded him of a first date, the way he fussed over what to wear.  Jeans or trousers?  Jeans.  Jumper or sweater vest?  Jumper.  Fine knit (blue) or cable knit (oatmeal)?  Oatmeal.  Hair a little greyer than when he left London, but he looked well-rested; his eyes were clear and alive.  More alive than they had been in a long time. 

But this was no date for which he dressed; it was for the most important meeting of his life.  One that would decide what direction his remaining days would take.

Looking one more time in the mirror, he changed his mind and took off the oatmeal jumper, replacing it with the blue sweater vest; more than once he’d been told it brought out the blue in his eyes.  He buttoned the top button of the checkered shirt underneath.  No, not right.  He unbuttoned it again, yes, that’s it, fondly thinking that Sherlock could probably write an entire thesis on the psychology behind whether or not the top button sat open.  A companion piece to the one the detective had threatened to write on the ‘complexity’ of his jumpers. 

Dear Christ, how he missed Sherlock. 

He missed the arrogance that masked a child-like vulnerability.  Missed the utter brilliance that rarely failed to leave him breathless with amazement.  Missed the snarky sense of humour that, more than Sherlock would ever care to admit, hid warmth and affection.

And he missed Sherlock’s unfailing loyalty, his tenacious hold on their friendship that told John just how important he was to him. 

Often, in the time he’d been gone, John re-evaluated his decision to leave, each time knowing that despite how difficult it had been, there was no other path he could have taken.  But by no means did that mean he didn’t miss Sherlock, missed him with an ache that grew stronger every passing day.

He turned from the mirror to his daughter where she laid on the bed, her blanket kicked half off, sprawled in total relaxation in the way only a child could.

Glancing at his watch he saw he had several minutes before he woke her from her nap and readied her to go.  With no official time to arrive at his destination, he had taken the precaution of setting one himself.  If he hadn’t, he might not gather the courage to go. 

Sitting down in the chair to wait, he watched his daughter sleep, a little bubble forming at the side of her mouth.  Grateful beyond measure that something so precious came from the debacle that was his marriage.

His mind drifted back to the days following Sherlock’s injury.

John remembered them so well, the powerful emotions tugging at his insides as if ripping him apart.  He could almost feel the tears on his cheeks as he remembered how he wept upon hearing the news that Sherlock would recover, the overwhelming rush of relief at hearing the man he cared so much for would live. 

John knew what his leaving London had looked like.  It had looked as if he were a heartless bastard who ran out on his best friend when he was critically injured.  And on the face of it, that would have been correct.  But there was so, so much more to it than that. 

In the days John waited for news of Sherlock’s prognosis, as he wearily paced the corridors of the hospital, sat endless hours in the serviceable waiting room listening to Sherlock’s family quietly talking amongst themselves, kindly trying to comfort him in his own grief, visited the small chapel, praying to a God he wasn’t sure heard him, he had time to think.  Time to look inside himself and realise he was nowhere near a place where he could enter a new relationship.  Sherlock didn’t need someone who had only days before decided to divorce.  Someone who felt blind-sided by his new-found attraction to a man.  Someone who had nearly fatally shot him, albeit by horrific accident.

No, John didn’t leave London because he didn’t care about Sherlock, but because he did.  He cared about Sherlock too much to enter a relationship half-arsed, to go in half a man.  And he couldn’t bear what it would do to Sherlock if ‘they’ didn’t work.  No, better to heal himself first so he could give _them_ a fighting chance.  That was, if Sherlock still wanted him when, if, he returned. 

And it had taken time to pick up the shattered pieces of himself and reassemble them into a recognisable order.  To once again be the John Watson he knew before everything started to go terribly wrong, when the best friend he ever had committed suicide in front of him that fateful day at St. Bart’s. 

It had taken time to forgive himself for his part in Sherlock’s injury. 

It had taken time to get over the sting of marrying a woman who had so badly played him for a fool.  And though she had not done it for altruistic reasons, he couldn’t help but be grateful to Mary for confessing to the murder of Magnussen (under threat by Mycroft of being turned into the Russian mob, of course).  He still smiled when he recalled how surprisingly effective Sherlock’s parents had been in the lies they told the authorities as to her whereabouts that day.

That was all now in the past; it was time to find out what his future held. 

John looked at his watch.  Time to go. 

* * *

 

Leaving the flat to take her rubbish to the bins, Mrs. Hudson shrieked when she saw who stood in the hallway at the foot of the stairs to 221b.

John Watson. 

Dropping her container to the floor, she patted her hand to her chest. “Oh, Dear!  Oh, my,” she flustered.  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.  I don’t know how many times I’ve told Sherlock that very thing.  ‘We haven’t seen the last of John Watson’, I’d say, but you know him, once he gets something in his head there’s no persuading him.”   She tsked in disapproval at Sherlock’s obstinance.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson, and how are you?  Yes, it has been a long time, hasn’t it.”  Finding it hard to do the polite thing and look at her as he responded, John’s gaze drifted up the stairs, memories flooding him.  As pleased as he normally would have been to see the quirky old landlady, he found it difficult to concentrate on her prattling. 

“And this must be your daughter.  May I hold her?”  Mrs. Hudson stretched her arms out to take the little girl. “She looks _just_ like you.  You must be so proud.  Oh my, it is _so_ good to see you.”

The child looked uncertainly between John and the stranger, her blue eyes wide, as he handed her over to Mrs. Hudson, but the landlady’s coos and animated smile, and her father’s gentle reassurance, told her she was safe.

Looking back up the stairwell, John was about to ask if Sherlock was home, but he heard strains of music begin to waft down to them.  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, his pulse quickening as he felt Sherlock’s presence so powerfully it was as if he was physically surrounded by it.  As he saw in his mind’s eye Sherlock’s achingly beautiful face, the rich auburn hair desperate to be touched, the generous mouth he knew could kiss him into senselessness, the cheekbones he could gladly stroke until he entered the afterlife.  He felt and saw all this as vividly as if Sherlock were standing in front him, a mere breath away.

“Are you okay, dear?  You aren’t having some kind of episode are you?  My friend Millie, well, just the other day…”

John’s eyes flew open, hoping he didn’t look as flushed as he felt.  “No, Mrs. Hudson, I’m fine, thank you.  Will you, uh, will you watch her for a few minutes.  I need to go up and talk to Sherlock.”  He looked at Scotti, who was by this time more than content to be in the arms of the grandmotherly woman.  God knows it had been some while since Scotti had been treated to a feminine touch.

“Does he know you’re coming?”

“No, it’s a bit of a surprise.” 

Christ.  Was he doing the right thing?   Should he have called first?  He’d thought about it, but every time he’d gone to call he clicked the phone off when he heard the ring on the other end.  What if Sherlock hung up on him?  No, if Sherlock didn’t want to talk to him he would have a harder time shaking John off in person; John knew it might take a few minutes to get through that thick head it should listen to what needed to be said.  

“Does he…does he ever mention me?”

“He’s not the same since, you know, the accident.”  Seeing the stricken look on his face, Mrs. Hudson rushed on.  “Oh no, he’s fine, physically.  He was never one to before to chat me up, but now he hardly ever speaks.  And when he does, he’s so polite; it’s unnatural.  Not that I mind, but it’s just not right, him keeping to himself so much.”

Taking Scotti’s chubby hand in his, John returned her infectious smile, finding strength in it.  “You be a good girl for Mrs. Hudson.  Daddy will be back in a few minutes.”

John turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson.  “Thank you.  I won’t be long.”

“You go on dear, I’m sure Sherlock will be delighted to see you.  He’s missed you, you know.”  

Cuddling Scotti, Mrs. Hudson smiled at her and headed toward her flat, “Let’s go find you a biscuit.”

John stared up the stairwell, far less certain than Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock would be ‘delighted’ to see him.

* * *

 

Only late afternoon, Sherlock went into his bedroom and changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown.  He had been out earlier with Lestrade, but now saw no need to keep his suit on; he wouldn’t be going anywhere the rest of the day.

He heard Mrs. Hudson’s shriek and cocked his head.

Alarm?  Distress? Spider?  

No, delight.  Perhaps an old friend come to visit.  Muffled voices exchanged presumed pleasantries for several minutes.  Mrs. Hudson waffling on about lord knows what as she walked back to her flat.  Where did the other voice go?  A man’s.  What men friends does Mrs. Hudson have?

Walking over and retrieving his violin from its case, the bow that rested against the wall, he took his familiar place in front of the window.  As he gazed out of it sightlessly, he oddly had trouble concentrating on the new composition he had been working on, his mind wandering to the conversation below.

Curious.  Where did the other voice go?  He didn’t hear the front door a second time; he’d only heard it when the visitor arrived.

Intriguingly, a footstep sounded on the first stair below, stopping before it proceeded. Why was Mrs. Hudson’s friend coming to see _him_? 

Two, three.  Four steps.  Each successive ascent, cautious.  Planned.  Why?

Five, six, seven… 

The seventh step creaked, and then a pause.  He really needed to ask Mrs. Hudson to have the handyman fix that step.

Eight, nine, ten…

Eleven. 

Sherlock’s bow glided smoothly across the strings, but he hardly noticed, his focus now entirely on the baffling rhythm of footsteps.  His eyes alert.  His head cocked just so, to catch every sound. Not yet aware how hard his heart pounded.

Left foot.  Right foot.  Slightly more pressure applied to the left.  The heel of the boots (Loake) not entirely settled on the step, maybe one inch, no, an inch and a half, protruding off the step.  A nick in the right heel, thirteen months old.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath of air, holding tightly to it lest it escape him and he never find another. 

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

Sherlock felt lightheaded. 

It couldn’t be. 

Not after all this time.

Fifteen, sixteen.

Seventeen.

Not after so many months of waiting.  Of hoping.  Hope that waned bit by devastating bit, until he finally resigned himself to never again hearing the sound of those beloved footsteps.

But now, here they were, coming to make his life whole.

He closed his eyes, almost swaying in disbelief.

* * *

 

Walking slowly up the stairs John listened to the mournful melody.  A melody, if possible, more melancholy than the one Sherlock had played the night Irene died.

As he reached the top step, the music stopped. 

Through the open door he saw Sherlock’s back to him, his hand on his bow, lifting his chin from where it had rested on his treasured instrument. 

“Hello, John,” came the rich voice that reached down and settled deep in his soul.

* * *

 

‘Hello, John.’  What the hell does that even _mean_? John asked himself.

Once John had started thinking there was a very real possibility he would see Sherlock again, he had played this moment so many times in his head, imagining what  Sherlock’s reaction might be when he saw him.  Would he conceal his reaction beneath a mask of stoicism?  Would he get angry and throw him out?  Would he…be happy?  Be glad to see John and smile, forgiving him?

But with Sherlock’s back turned, John couldn’t read his face. 

If he were Sherlock Bloody Holmes he would be able to tell by how he held his head, the slope of his shoulders, the freaking length of his dressing gown, for god’s sake.   But not John.  With his ordinary mind he had to settle for facial expressions and words, neither of which was available to him. 

“May I come in?”  John kept his voice steady, despite the tremble in his body born of excitement and trepidation.  Emotions which had claimed him as their own ever since he knew he was ready.  Ready to go home. 

Sherlock girded himself, pushing down the swell of anticipation that overcame him, unable to allow himself to believe that though John now stood behind him, he could not be there for any reason other than to greet an old friend.

Carefully composing himself, Sherlock turned, and for the first time in eleven months laid his eyes on John. 

John.

His former flatmate.  His...his…he didn’t know what, now.

New clothes, fresh haircut. In preparation for today?  Hair dusted with a little more grey, but he couldn’t say it was an unattractive addition. No, not at all. Hands still, no tremor or agitation.  Shoulders squared , ready for whatever was to come. Eyes as deep blue and keen as before The Fall, healthy.  Eyes that searched his.  For what?

Sherlock felt disoriented.  Disoriented to see John here in front of him.  So close. Still so far away.  He briefly wondered if he had lost his mind, if perhaps John were an apparition.  The thought crossed his mind that he might be a hologram, just as ‘Moriarty’ had been on top of St. Bart’s that night, but he quickly pushed it aside as being too ridiculous.  No, this was John.  John was _here_.  With him.  But why?  

Struggling to breathe, every sense on alert, with difficulty Sherlock managed to say in a voice he felt fairly certain was his own, “Where’s Ekaterina?”  Best to stick with a safe question.

Caught off guard, John shifted his weight to his other foot.  It wasn’t that he meant to hide anything, but this really wasn’t how he planned to tell Sherlock how important he had become to him.    

“She’s downstairs with Mrs. Hudson.  She’s, uh, she’s not Ekaterina anymore, Sherlock.  I changed her name to Scotti.”  There it was, the cat was out of the bag.

“How do you mean you changed her name?  One doesn’t just go about picking out new names for children every year, John.  I know that and I don’t have children.”  He bit the inside of his lip.  Why did he have to sound so taciturn?!

“I know you said Sherlock is a girl’s name, but I couldn’t wrap my head around that one, so I named her Scotti.”  John briefly looked away, chuckling awkwardly.

“Scotti?  What does ‘Scotti’ have to do with 'Sherlock'?”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Scotti was the closest I could come to a girl’s name.”

Oh.

John named his child after him.

Sherlock mentally shook himself and moved on, trying not to read too much into that piece of information.  After all, it wasn’t uncommon for close friends to name their children after one another.  _Were_ they still friends?

“It's hard to believe Mary didn’t object.”

John shrugged.  “She didn’t have any say.  She was able to keep Scotti with her in prison until she stopped breast feeding, and then she gave up her parental rights.  It was part of the deal Mycroft made with her. You know about that, don’t you?”

“Obviously.  This is hardly a gaol cell, now is it, John.”

“Oh yeh, right.”

John cleared his throat; he still had things to say.  Important things.  He looked Sherlock straight in the eye, determined.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I…”

“You needn’t explain, John.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I do.”

John waited to make sure he would be able to talk without being interrupted again.  Sherlock’s mouth was closed.  Good.  But that didn’t mean that _that_ couldn’t change at any moment.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you by leaving, Sherlock.”  Sherlock’s mouth opened to speak and John held up his hand to stop him, looking at him sternly.  “You may want to say I don’t know what it feels like to have someone disappear on me like that, but you know I bloody well do.”

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut.  John pegged him on that one.

“Have you ever had that moment, Sherlock, where you didn’t know what you wanted until it was right there in front of you?  That moment where you see something, somebody, and have an…epiphany?  ‘ _This_ is what I want.  _This_ is the way it is supposed to be.’  When I heard you loved me, it felt so sodding  _right_.  Suddenly you were right there in front of me, and I knew.  I knew it was you all along.

“But I still had to make sure.  Had to clear all the other crap out of my head. I needed to put Mary and all the rotting chaos she caused, behind me.  If I was going to tell you how I felt, how I feel, it had to be when nothing, no one else was in the way.  You deserve no less. I could give you everything I have, everything I am and it would never be as much as you deserve.

“I love you, Sherlock.  Jesus, how I love you.”  Moisture springing to his eyes, John refused to be embarrassed.  “I am sorry it took me so long to tell you that.  And…and I hope I’m not too late.” 

John lifted his chin, knowing Sherlock held his life in his hands.  Unwilling to think what he would do if Sherlock refused him.  He stood quietly, watching Sherlock, waiting for an answer to a question that had not been asked. 

But Sherlock just looked back at him, his face impossible to read. His violin and bow still in his hands.

Saying nothing.

Long moments passed, and still, nothing.

Well, that was his answer then, John thought.  The tears he had been unembarrassed about, now threatening to fall. 

What more could he expect?  He had spurned the man who loved no one.  Had, for all appearances, turned his back on him while he lay on a bed in hospital, struggling for his life.  Had refused to speak to him for nearly a year.  Why _would_   Sherlock want to talk to him?

Clearing his throat, John offered a final farewell.  “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.  I, uh, it was good to see you, then.”

With a last look at the man he knew would take a lifetime to forget, John turned around and left the flat.  He had put himself, his heart, on the line, but he couldn’t regret it.  Had he not, he would not have known the indescribable relief of telling the greatest man he had ever known, that he loved him. 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes followed John.  When he could no longer see him, he listened as the doctor went down the stairs, went down without the hesitation there had been on the way up. 

What just happened?  And why hadn’t he been able to respond?  He wanted to shout after him, ‘John!’, but no sound came out of his mouth.  It was far too much like the time when John asked him to be his best man at the wedding.  Shock merged into catatonia. 

But that time John hadn’t walked out before he could regain his senses and respond.

* * *

 

Back at the window, Sherlock played, reaching into the deepest parts of him, his sorrow disguised as the notes he sent floating into the air, taunting him.  Taunting him for his idiocy in letting John go without telling him nothing, _nothing_ mattered more than having him beside him.

Taunting him for losing John.  Again.

The image of John standing in the doorway came back to him.  He envisioned every minutiae of the man he loved.  The warm eyes that looked right through him.  The relaxed, yet confident stance.  The hands that rested beside his thighs, still and strong.  The clean-shaven skin he knew would give him life was he to softly touch it, to press his own cheek against it.

No.  NO!  He would not lose him again.  John loved him.  John _loved_ him.  Sherlock might look a fool running after him, but how much bigger a fool would he look were he to allow John to just walk away?  He must find John.  Quickly.

Hastily packing his instrument, Sherlock turned to rush to his bedroom; he must change.  Or did he have time?

Before he could take a step, he froze.  His chest heaving, for the second time that day he struggled to breath.

For sitting in the chair that had always been his, was John.

Sherlock’s mind whirled, as if somehow his brain matter had been separated from the stabilising force of gravity.  After several tries, Sherlock found the wherewithal to speak, “How long have you been here?”

John smiled up at him, with all the love and warmth Sherlock could ever hope to see sitting on his face.  Shining from his eyes.

“Oh, a couple of hours, now.  Beautiful piece by the way.  New?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock didn’t know what else to say.  Didn’t know how to tell John what an idiot he was for not telling him he still loved him.  And would never, never stop.

“By the way, I’m not leaving again,” John said gently.  “You’re just going to have to put up with me.  That is, if you’ll take Scotti and me as a package deal.”

“Where is she?”  Sherlock looked around, confused, because certainly he would have noticed a baby in the flat.

“She’s with Mrs. Hudson.  I couldn’t pry Scotti away from her so I went and got a few things to tide her over.  She’ll be spending the night downstairs.”

The smile on John’s face softened, a promise of more to come.

Mesmerized, Sherlock crossed the few steps to where John sat.  Slowly lowering his long, lean, form to the floor, his eyes never leaving those that looked at him with wonderment , he knelt at John’s feet.  And cupping John’s thighs with his graceful hands, he rested his cheek on his lap, the heat of John’s body soothing him.  Telling him he would never be alone again.

John nearly stopped breathing at the sight of this proud man lowering himself before him.  Baring himself to a depth of intimacy and vulnerability John had never before seen. 

He reached out, and with a profound wave of gratitude that almost overwhelmed him, he threaded his fingers through the thick mass of Sherlock's curls.

Silently promising he would love him.

Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is always such a sad moment, the end of a series. Maybe it's because it's when everything is bright and happy and I want to hang on to the love. From the beginning I planned on an epilogue, but I think I put what I needed to in this chapter. To those of you who tagged along until the end, thank you SO MUCH; I hope it was an interesting and satisfying ride for you. I know for me it has been a great (and often mind-boggling!) adventure. Special thanks to Burning_Up_A_Sun (the Beta of all Betas!), Thorntonsheart, and QueenLadyAnn, you've given me the greatest gift I could receive, you make me feel like a Writer.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, eternal gratitude to my incomparable Beta and friend, Burning_up_a_Sun. You are the gift that keeps on giving. *Hugs*
> 
> Thanks to the amazing Ariane DeVere for her transcripts from Season 3; they can be found on LiveJournal.
> 
> In My Life is off the Beatles album Rubber Soul.


End file.
